


somewhere they'll never find us

by Michelle1029



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode 6 fix it, F/M, Home, Idiots in Love, Jonerys Week 2020, Love and Duty, Pining, day 7: free choice, get ready to be annoyed at their stubbornness, it's another fix-it, slow burn?, who cares about westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:02:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 54,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle1029/pseuds/Michelle1029
Summary: The first towers had fallen, the windows bright with the orange flames they contained as they hit the ground. At first, he thought the rumbling beneath his feet was only a result of the destruction he was witnessing, but the deafening explosions that followed told him otherwise. Green lit up the air, a bright angry green that grew rapidly in size and strength.Taking King's Landing goes wrong and instead of becoming Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys has to begin again somewhere new.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 86
Kudos: 174





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I saw part of a video recently by The Dragon Demands on youtube where he pointed out that the original script for episode 5 clearly reads that it was wildfire that destroyed the city. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uleMYE0eWg0&t=660s. (the link if anyone is interested)
> 
> Long story short, I rolled with that idea. In this version, Daenerys does not give her fascism speech but Tyrion still gives a version of that bs "we have to kill her cause she's evil" speech to Jon before he goes to the Throne Room. So Tyrion still sucks. Be warned, the ending will most likely be 85% of how the show ended, mostly cause I don't care about everyone else, but Dany and Jon will get a happy ending so it's already better than d&d's version. 
> 
> I wanted to get the whole thing finished before i posted but it turns out that I'm terrible at time management and could only get about half. It's a rough-ish version, I'll probably edit and refine before I post the next half but I wanted to get it out on time 😭 My quick spot editing may have made some parts confusing but I'm going to fix it I promise lol

He found her standing alone in front of the Iron Throne, her back to him. Rubble litters the once great hall, and snowy ash drifts slowly towards the ground, blanketing the stone floors. 

He wants to be happy for her, to be proud of her. Part of him is, but the other part is flooded with Tyrion’s words, the warnings and the request. He pushes the latter away quickly. He’s too frightened to entertain the idea. Not yet.

 _There was so much fire,_ he thinks in horror, his mind running through all the terrible things he saw making his way through the streets. Charred corpses, melting flesh, children burned, countless lives ended. He can’t imagine what it must have looked like from the sky, from atop a dragon.

He stops just a little past the entrance and watches her and wishing time would just stop so he didn’t have to face what came next.

She turns to look at him and he’s taken aback by the look of despair on her face.

He walks closer, worried for her now, but she only steps back, her legs brushing up against the the throne. She shakes her head slowly, as if telling him to stay away.

When he nears the base of the steps, she speaks. “Jon,” her voice cracks, in disbelief and agony. “I didn’t—I—I didn’t know.”

He hardly registers her words. He doesn’t know what to say or what to think. He’s close enough now to see the sheen of tears in her eyes, wide with panic and nearly crazed.

“Why?” he finally pushes out.

She shakes her head again, not meeting his eye. “ _I didn’t know._ I swear it. Tyrion, h-he never mentioned…It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she looks at him in desperation when he remains silent. “You have to believe me, _please_.”

Something in him shifts at the misery in her voice. What Tyrion said abruptly loses the entire foundation he’d built it on, what Jon saw happen to the city was something else entirely, something separate from her and all the extraordinary things he believed her to be.

He did believe her.

She moves forward when he doesn’t react. When she speaks again it’s barely above a whisper, “It was only supposed to be the keep. It was only supposed to be her.”

He remembers the exact moment, when the bells rang and Drogon leapt from the wall of the city into the air, and he watched with his heart stuck in his throat, wondering what she was going to do.

Relief had washed over him when he saw she was flying towards the Red Keep, and grim understanding filled him when the first brush of dragonfire touched the stones of the ancient castle. Of course she wanted more than Cersei’s surrender, of course she wanted the woman to suffer just as she had. He knew it was not rage or madness that told her to do it, but a grief so strong it needed to be felt.

The first towers had fallen, the windows bright with the orange flames they contained as they hit the ground. At first, he thought the rumbling beneath his feet was only a result of the destruction he was witnessing, but the deafening explosions that followed told him otherwise. Green lit up the air, a bright angry green that grew rapidly in size and strength.

It took him only seconds to realize what it was and then he just ran. He tried uselessly to direct people to follow but panic and chaos consumed them. His men became influence by the violence, a cruelty he never expected unleashed in them. He couldn’t stop them from inflicting pain on whoever crossed their paths; he couldn’t save the women and children running from the flames erupting and consuming the streets behind them. He was powerless to stop any of it.

He made it to the gates, just in time to feel the heat of the wildfire on his back. Grey Worm was with him, as was Davos and Tyrion, all in shock at the event playing out before them. Tyrion’s look of dreadful resignation should have a been a warning, it should have told him all he needed to know about how quickly he decided that she needed to pay for what had happened. But slowly, as the flames died and the screams stopped, Jon began to wonder if he was right.

From outside the walls, he had seen Drogon mounted on one of the remaining towers, finished with his destruction and facing the city. He couldn’t see her, but he could only imagine the sight she was confronted with. In that moment he wondered if she relished in it, if she was pleased at how quickly the city fell to her feet and became hers. He wondered if she even bothered to listen to the screams in the streets below.

When Tyrion confronted him, Jon’s confusion had only grown and left him exposed, and the man had no trouble trying to poison wound.

Now those residual thoughts only feel shameful and treasonous, because it’s obvious that the woman before him is devastated. There isn’t any pride shining in her eyes, there isn’t any light in them at all, just sorrow.

“You didn’t know.” He echoes vacantly. It didn’t matter much now, because it still happened. People still died and the city was still left in ruin. But to him, and rather selfishly, what mattered now was her.

At his words, she grows more distressed, shaking her head. “That doesn’t matter, does it? I still did it, I—” she breaks a little more, and he can’t stop himself from reach out to her and taking his hands in her own. They’re shaking. “How many, Jon? _How many people did I kill?”_

He doesn’t like the way it sounds, the weight of the blame in her words. She _is_ to blame, he knows that, the wildfire may never have been ignited if it hadn’t been for Drogon, but perhaps Cersei planned to light it anyway at the first sign of defeat. To have Daenerys do it unknowingly probably sent her to her death with a smile on her face.

Tyrion’s voice invades his mind, telling them it’s only an excuse, that he doesn’t want to see what she had become, but Tyrion isn’t here, looking at her, overwhelmed with the remorse that surrounds her.

He looks down at their joined hands, squeezing hers tightly before meeting her eyes. “I don’t know,” he could hardly comprehend what _had_ happen, let alone the aftermath. All he wants to do now is comfort her, help her, but he also doesn’t want to lie to her. “It may be some time before we do.”

A noise escapes her, pitiful and heartbreaking, and she rips her hands from his. They fall to her side; fists clenched and knuckles white. “What am I going to do?”

He doesn’t know that either. What can she do? The throne is in her grasp, just a few steps back and she would have what she had lost so much for. She could start there, take her crown and slowly heal the gaping wound of the city. He swallows, the lump in his throat painful. “The Kingdoms are yours now—”

“They’re not.” To his surprise she cuts him off, strong and bitter, but it leaves her just as quickly. “ _They’re not_.”

She turns to face the throne, and he moves to stand beside her.

It’s an ugly thing, reflecting none of the grandeur she spoke of it with, only dark corruption, and an underwhelming façade of strength, useless swords that would never protect anyone. But he knows that when she spoke of the throne, she was speaking of more than just an iron chair. She was speaking of home, a longing to gain what was lost to her before she took her first breath, she told him as much as the waved rocked them to sleep on the journey to White Harbor. He feels none of that looking at it.

It infuriates him to think that others would ever push him to take it from her. Tyrion, Varys, his own family, they didn’t care what his claim meant to her. He did, but like everything else, it didn’t matter now.

“They’ll beg you to take it,” she starts, soft and resigned. “Even more than they already have. And you must. You’ll be a good king, Jon.”

Immediately, he’s annoyed and confused. He doesn’t want it; he doesn’t want the duties that come with it. He only wants peace and yet something told him it was even further from his reach than before.

“I told you, I—”

“You don’t want it, I know,” her irritation is clear. “But you trusted people you shouldn’t have, you made yourself the target for their ambitions and now you must do what is necessary. You’re better than all of them and you took the duty of king for yourself as soon as you told your family.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that and he won’t argue with her, not now. He stays quiet, accepting the truth she’s laid before him.

“I’m sorry. I _never_ meant for it happen like this,” he can hear the tears in her voice, the pity she has for him, but he keeps his eyes on the throne. The sight of her crying would be too much to bear. “I’ve lost my right to the crown…I expect the demands for my life will be too great to ignore.”

He looks at her now, turning to her when the meaning of her words dawns on him. “I won’t do that, Dany.”

He’s flooded with shame, because when Tyrion asked, Jon only tried to listen, ignoring the way his heart constricted painfully at the idea. He was weak, too weak to think without someone else to guide his thoughts.

A sad smile is on her face when she looks away from the throne. “I wouldn’t expect you to. But that’s the only way this can play out. You’ll be king and you’ll make the world a better place, I know it,” she says it with earnest, as if the finality of it isn’t terrible. “Tyrion and Sansa…they’ll do all they can to win you support from the other kingdoms and they’ll succeed. But someone has to face the consequences of this, and they need someone to blame.”

“You’re not going to die,” he says with more surety than he feels. To live in a world where she no longer existed…it was unfathomable to him, surprisingly so. Their love was fleeting, a moment in time, and it ended before he could truly appreciate how lucky he was to have her love, but he had accepted that when the war was done, he would not see her again. He would have gone North, away from the South and away from her. But he suspects now, he would have spent his days loving her from afar. Proud to call her his queen and smiling whenever news of her reign reached his ears. But to not see her because she was gone from the world, he didn’t want to know what that felt like. “I won’t let that happen.”

She looks pained at his confidence. “How can you say that after you saw what I did?”

It’s strange, that he knows she is the cause, and she shoulders the blame, and yet he can’t look at her and see the monster she’s supposed to be. It would easier if she were, if she disregarded the casualties and called them necessary. Tyrion spoke of her as if she would and he believed it.

“You didn’t know,” he insists, and he feels like _he’s_ betraying every person who had lost their lives. “If Cersei meant for it to happen, it would have happened with or without your help.”

“It happened _with_ my help and Cersei is dead,” facts he doesn’t want to face, yet she says it with admirable strength. She’s always been stronger than him.

“ _They’ll understand_ ,” he pushes. “They’ll forgive you in time, Dany, and everything will be alright.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” she snaps. “I did it, I killed all of those people. I swore I would _never_ be like my father and I’ve become worse than he ever was.”

“You’re not.”

She chuckles, dark and defeated. “I am. I wanted to kill her, I wanted to burn her alive and destroy everything around her because I couldn’t resist hurting her as much as I could. I didn’t want her surrender; I wanted her blood.”

She says the words like they’re bad, like they’re the worst thoughts she could have and yet all he can do is remember the moments he felt the same, when he pushed forward and kept fighting just for the satisfaction of seeing his enemies bleed, every moment in battle when the violence would consume him.

When he doesn’t agree with her, she continues. “I can’t claim something that was taken so violently, it isn’t right.”

 _Why not?_ He could argue. _Others have done worse._ But he knows why. Because she isn’t like the others, she’s _good_. Condemning herself to death for it only makes him more sure, and more certain it would be wrong to let it happen. How easily she’s accepted it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but he understands the guilt that drives it.

He shakes his head. “I can’t let you pay the price of her crimes.”

“How can you stop it?” she asks gently. “Face it, Jon. She set a trap and I fell right into it. I have no chance of escaping it. I’ve lost, the same as her, and there is nothing left for me here.”

“And your people? Grey Worm? Drogon?” _Me_. It’s sitting on his tongue, heavy and begging to be said, but if it wasn’t impossible before, it is now.

“They’ll all be alright, whether it’s here or back in Essos…they’ll carry on without me.”

He sighs, at a loss. “Tyrion asked me to do it already,” he admits. “As we were waiting for the flames to die.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised…I should have known long before he told Varys about you. I trusted him for far too long.”

Guilt fills him, a heavy, mocking guilt, because _he_ was the first to betray her, and perhaps his actions led to hers. “Dany, I—you were right, I shouldn’t have told Sansa.”

“I appreciate the sentiment but it’s too late for regret now,” her eyes drift back to the throne, lingering long enough for him to see the tragic longing overtaking her. “Do you suppose…if things had gone differently, I would have been a good queen?”

 _She won’t change her mind,_ he realizes. _She won’t take the throne no matter what I say._

He answers honestly, hoping that she would feel the pride of accomplishing her goal, even if just for a moment. “You would have been an amazing queen…you’re incapable of being anything less.”

She closes her eyes, nodding at his answer.

Squaring her shoulders, she turns to face him again, her face a smooth, beautiful mask of strength, but he knows there is more swimming underneath, though she’s keeping it from him. “I’ll speak to Grey Worm. He needs to know this is my choice. And I need your word, that whatever they choose to do, my people will not be hurt. Drogon will do as he wishes, I have no say in that regard, but I do hope he’ll have mercy. On you, at least.”

The resentment in her voice is deserved, the subtle threat earned.

She carries on, speaking of her self-inflicted death sentence as if it were inevitable. “They’ll push for it to happen soon when they realize I don’t plan to fight; all I ask for is a quick—”

“No,” he says urgently, stepping forward, struggling to find his footing an argument he fears he’s losing. “You can stay, Dany, and I’ll help you. You have control of the city; your men will keep you in power and—”

“ _Stop!_ ” She says, her voice breaking. “I don’t want it like this, don’t you understand? I’ve lost _everything_. It was supposed to be different. I was supposed to be _happy_.”

“You can still be happy.” His own voice is weak, pained at the hurt she feels. His hands ache to touch her, to hold her.

Her brows furrow, anguish brimming in her eyes. “How?”

 _How?_ He doesn’t know. She can’t stay if she isn’t queen, she’s right in that regard. They would seek retribution and Tyrion would lead the pack. He could kill the man, dispose of the threat to her life, but others would spring forward, stronger and more aggressive, perhaps even his own sister. There isn’t a point in staying in King’s Landing if she isn’t acting as queen.

“You’ll leave,” he states urgently. “You’ll leave and you’ll find some way to be happy. You have a whole life to live, Dany. The throne isn’t your only path to happiness.”

A plethora of images run through his mind, of all the ways she could be happy, of all the ways she could smile and be free from the loss surrounding her now. He ignores the longing in his heart, the painful grip of hope, the hungry need to go with her and witness it himself. In order for her to leave, he would need to stay, and make sure no one ever followed. 

“You mean run away?”

“Yes,” he breathes, the panic in heart easing. She wouldn’t die, she wouldn’t pay for someone else’s crimes. He gives into his need, cradling her face in his hands, running his thumb along her cheek. She melts into his touch, stepping closer to him, grabbing onto his wrists. “Run as far as you can from these people who will never see you for what you are, who will never give you anything but grief and betrayal. You deserve so much more than that.”

“Where can I go?” she asks, and his heart soars at sliver of hope he hears.

“Somewhere they’ll _never_ find you.”

The words stir up a past that felt too good to have been his. Her teasing, her smile, her hope.

A familiar affection flickers in her eyes, gone before he could capture it.

The fleeting hope leaves her too, and she gently moves his hands from her face. “They’ll look for me…they won’t just let me leave. I’ll never be safe, Jon.”

That’s true too, it’s implausible to think they would simply let her be or accept that he let her walk away. _A danger so long as she lived_ , they would say, _a threat that needed to be dealt with_.

“Then we have to make them think I’ve killed you,” he says somberly, ghosting his fingers along the hilt of his sword. “And you need to leave now.”

She stills for a beat, contemplating his words before nodding, her eyes following the movement of his fingers. “Drogon carried my body away.” She concludes their lie with ease.

“Drogon carried your body away,” he affirms. “Go east, and don’t look back.”

The sound of soft footsteps on the snow reach their ears, and they both look to find Grey Worm entering the hall, his eyes narrowing at Jon’s hand. He tightens his grip on his spear and addresses Daenerys in Valyrian.

“I’m alright, Grey Worm.” She calls out, her voice is wistful and gentle, the beginning of a goodbye.

She moves away from him completely, walking down the steps to speak to her commander, leaving Jon next to throne she sacrificed so much for.

Whatever they say, it’s too low for him to hear, though Grey Worm casts him dark glances, his otherwise stoic face constricting in emotion as she explains what will happen. He’s immediately grateful that he won’t carry the lie alone, and even more so that the other party is Grey Worm, Daenerys’ last loyal advisor. One of the only who did not betray her.

From above, he hears a deafening roar from Drogon, and moments later the beast lands on a collapsed wall, stones crumbling easily beneath his weight.

Grey Worm gives her a final nod, stepping back from her, and moving to wait at the entrance. When she turns to face Jon again, his heart catches in his throat.

She watches him briefly, expression unreadable, as he moves forward, summoned by her attention, but her gaze drifts to the throne behind him, and the sadness is no longer hidden.

He says it again, knowing it isn’t enough. “You didn’t know.”

“It only makes people do terrible things, doesn’t it?” she replies. “The world will never be better so long as it exists. I should destroy it.”

He stops in front of her, as close as he dares. “You should.”

Her eyes widen in surprise at his certainty, but she stays focused on it. The familiar, impressive confidence he had always admired bleeds into her cool demeanor. He can’t help but smile at it, relieved that they did not take that away from her too and steps out of her way.

Whatever magic tethers them together makes Drogon roar again, a tormented cry of power. He moves with surprising swiftness, landing behind Daenerys, forcing Jon to back away quickly.

They owed her this at least, a moment to make a fraction of the changes she had dreamed of for the Kingdoms.

_“Dracarys.”_

She doesn’t flinch as the flames fly past her head. They hit the throne with great force, and he watches in awe as the steel bends to the force of the heat. Fragile, too weak to resist her fire.

As it melts into a pile of liquid metal, her mask begins to crack. Anger, grief, remorse, all strong and unrelenting but she stands her ground while he starts to give into them himself. _She’s going to leave. I’ll never see her again._

The bright flames extinguish just as suddenly as they appeared, the heat leaving so abruptly the chill of winter seeps into him without warning. The room falls silent, save for her steady, deep breathes. 

He goes to her, slow and deliberate steps, trying to prolong the ending they’ve given themselves. _At least we chose together._

She smiles again, the secret one that’s just for him, and he savors it, memorizes every detail of it because he knows it will be the last time.

Keeping their distance would make is hurt less, but he can’t resist, and neither can she. She pulls him close; he presses his forehead to hers and just breathes in her scent. A small respite, but the urgency is getting more insistent with every heartbeat.

She tilts her head up, tentatively, brushing her lips against his. He runs his hand along the smooth skin of her neck, and moves to deepen it, wanting nothing more than to push away the doubt she carried about them. They were _real_ , and for a blissful few weeks, he felt more alive than he ever had. She gave him that.

She pulls away first.

She looks up at him, tracing his jaw with the pads of her fingers, as if she’s trying to memorize him too.

“Dany, I—”

She presses her fingers against his mouth, stopping his words from escaping. “Don’t,” she says. “Please.”

He doesn’t want to hurt her anymore, so he doesn’t say it. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, because she needs to know that too. He’s sorry for everything he’s done and everything she’s lost. He’s sorry that he failed in helping her reclaim her throne. He’s sorry he turned away from her when she needed him the most. He’s sorry he betrayed her.

She clears her throat, putting space between them. “I suppose I should leave, then,” she looks like she wants to say more, but she stops herself as she stopped him.

Drogon moves close, lowering his wing for her to climb up.

“Wait,” he says, not nearly as composed as she is. He quickly unties the sheath of the dagger attached to his belt and holds it out to her. His hands are shaking. “Take this, keep yourself safe.”

She shakes her head, eyeing it closely. “Drogon won’t let any harm come to me.”

“I know, I just…” _I just want to know that I’ve done all I can to protect you. That I can keep you safe even when I’m not with you._ A weak substitute for what he should have done all along. “Just in case, though.”

Her shoulders drop at the sadness coming from him, but she reaches out for it, their fingers brushing against each other when she takes it.

“Take care, Jon Snow.”

Within seconds, she’s mounted on her dragon, and one gentle command later, Drogon is spreading his wings and taking her away. She doesn’t look back.

He watches until she’s a speck on the horizon, the weight of dread lifting from him the farther she gets.

“She says she would like me to help,” Grey Worm’s voice surprises him, but the disdain in it doesn’t. “I will do it for her, not for you.”

Jon nods, but he can’t accept the help. The presence of her men will only cause tension, and in truth it would be unlikely that they would help him in any way after they learn he’s killed their queen.

“Thank you,” he replies. “But as far as everyone else will know, I killed her. You’re not expected to stay.”

“What she said is truth, then? You will rule in her place?”

He nods, rather pitifully. He won’t know peace until his death, it seems, yet the thought feels selfish. He can’t be selfish now, perhaps he should have been before and everything would be different.

“You do not want to be king?” Grey Worm accuses. “You stole it from her, but you do not want it?”

He flinches under the accusation. “I trusted the wrong people, and they tried to steal it for me.”

“They succeeded,” he snaps back. “If you truly do not want it, then you would not take it.”

“What else can I do? She asked me t—”

“Because she thinks you are good. Because she loves you,” the strain in his voice reminds Jon that it wasn’t only Daenerys who lost people she loved. “She should not have loved you.”

He’s shamed by the truth of it. She was so much better off before he came asking for her help. He was insistent and stubborn that he couldn’t see any agenda beyond his own. She was accommodating where he was not, she was brave where he was not.

“She shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “But I’m happy she did.”

A curt nod is all he’s given and then they’re both quiet. Both mourning, both stunned by the rapid downturn of events. Yesterday, she was still his queen, the distance between them did not affect his belief that her reign would be the dawn of a new era. Today, she was gone, stripped of the title she sought for years by her own accord. He hates how cruel and unfair it is.

“She said she did not want it anymore, and that you told her to leave and be happy instead of face death. I thank you for that.”

“I couldn’t watch her die.”

Grey Worm looks at him then and Jon shifts under his scrutinizing, hard gaze. “Because you love her.”

It’s more of a statement than a question but he answers anyway. “Yes.”

If possible, his eyes become more observant, pushing for something Jon isn’t giving away on the surface. Grey Worm takes a deep breath, minutely shaking his head.

“If you had harmed her, I would have run you through with my spear without a second thought. They will not believe she is dead if I do not seek revenge.”

His words did not frighten him, they didn’t register as a threat. Instead, they offered a release.

“What do we do then?”

“You are my prisoner,” he says, nodding at his decision. “If they want us to leave this country in peace, you will not take the crown you stole from her. That will be my condition.”

“Where will that leave me?”

“That is not my concern,” he answers. “I am giving you your life and your freedom and that is all, anything more you must seek from your family.”

Jon thinks of the paths laid before him, equally uncertain, equally possible, none what he truly wants. But he decides to be selfish, and he makes his decision without hesitation.

\---------------

She flies east for a while, like he said, but in her scattered thoughts and rapidly beating heart, she finds herself turning North.

She doesn’t acknowledge why for miles, but as she spots the stark whiteness of the snow blanketing the landscape, she admits it to herself.

His words echoed in her mind, stabilizing her, keeping her grounded.

_Somewhere they’ll never find you._

She knows it wasn’t what he meant, it was no doubt the furthest thing from his mind, but she’s so lost, so confused and anxious about what comes next that she needs to go there first, to settle and latch on to something real, something that made her feel like herself.

She stays above the clouds, dipping only to see if she spots anything familiar, estimating how far North she’s gotten by the drop in temperature. Her knuckles go white, her fingers cramped. The dagger she had secured in the waist of her trousers digs uncomfortably into her stomach. Hours pass, and she grows hungry, tired, bored. The boredom scares her the most. She didn’t want to be left alone to think, but she’s alone now and that’s all she can do.

She keeps her mind empty for as long as she can, staving off the images of her grave mistake, but they inevitably begin to bother her, and she feels all over again the quick turn from satisfaction to horror as the destruction went beyond the gates of the Red Keep while she could do nothing but watch.

Jon said it wasn’t her, that the blame was not all hers, but she knows he blamed her completely when he came to her in the throne room. He was surprised to find out she didn’t plan it. If he thought she _was_ capable of doing even for a fraction of a second, then he must not think so well of her at all. Somewhere along the way she lost his support as she had his love.

She isn’t so easily swayed, though. She blames herself entirely. She was ready to die for it.

She pushes him from her mind. Losing him was nothing compared to what the people of King’s Landing lost. It’s selfish to think of her personal grievances when faced with everything else. She doesn’t want to face it quite yet, but she accepts that once she does it will never go away. Every day, she’ll think of the lives stolen because of her thirst for Cersei’s blood. Every day, she’ll wake feeling undeserving of the gift of life when she herself has taken so many. Every day she’ll wake and wonder what sort of day she would have had as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

She isn’t ready to feel that, not until she stops floating in the strange emptiness she’s in. The only real thing she has left is her son, the heat of him keeping her alive and keeping the tears at bay.

He descends abruptly, and before she can panic, she spots the cliffs _they_ flew past, the mountains and the valleys in between them. She remembers looking back, and seeing him with her in the sky, elated that there was someone else to experience the wonder of flying with her, amused at the mix of terror and joy on his handsome face. She recalls feeling Rhaegal’s own joy, so unlike the grief that had haunted him since Viserion’s death. She keeps her eyes forward now, knowing that is she lets them wander, the nothingness around her will break her heart before she’s ready.

Drogon lands easily, quiet and somber. She wonders if he feels the acute loss as well.

Time had ceased to exist as they journeyed north, but that couldn’t go on forever. She climbs down and prepares herself for the sight that would begin a new life for her. 

When she faces the waterfall, her first instinct is to smile, her second is to look for him to share the memory, and the third is to blink it away like it’s nothing.

It’s impossible to ignore it completely though, because that’s why she’s here. One of the lasts places she was happy. One of the last places she extended her hope for the Iron Throne to a hope for a family too, just him and her and her sons. A small family, one that would never know the joy of a child’s laughter or their love, but it was enough for her. Her family and her home. 

If she could think that possible, a future doomed from the start, then she could find another. Something that would make her grateful for the chance to begin again. Just her and Drogon now, but it would have to be enough.

She walks forward slowly, leaving her son to rest in the snow behind her, the ghosts of memories follow her, and she can almost feel the warmth of him at her side. She makes herself find solace in it instead of sorrow.

She replays their conversation, searching for the comfort she had with him, determined to feel it on her own.

_We could stay a thousand years._

When she said it, she was surprised at how simple it was, and how easy it was to imagine. There was no throne, no crown, no kingdoms, just a peace she had not known for years.

She walks closer to the waterfall, following the path they had taken together, until she reaches the small alcove he’d dragged her into with a shy smile.

Absentmindedly, she pulls the dagger from her waistband. _For protection,_ she tells herself, but it’s also a piece of him.

The chill is stagnant here, and quiet. She glides her hand along the smooth wall, remembering how light she felt when he was here with her. If she could somehow go back, forget all the heartbreak that followed their last moments of love, then she could remember what it was that made her dream beyond her ambition for the throne.

She’s getting colder by the minute, without her fur coat she’s left exposed to the elements, but she doesn’t care.

Slowly, it could have been minutes or hours, she packs _them_ away. Every smile he’d given her, every sweet word, every shy look, every touch, she locks it away, treating them as the memories they were and stitching up the gaping wound they left when he ripped them away. The dagger in her hand becomes easier to look at, easier to separate from the man who gave it to her. It’s only a weapon, only a way to protect herself, it couldn’t be anything more.

Some tears escaped, but she was used to loss, and well-practiced at wiping them away.

Before long, all that’s left is the _feeling,_ the longing for something beyond a title, for a _home._

It was a pure feeling, borne and breed in innocence. There was no ulterior motives or ill-intentions, just an exposed vulnerability looking for somewhere to feel safe.

In the absence of _him_ , she thinks of Viserys and Ser Willem. Of Braavos. Of the house with the red door and the lemon tree outside her window. A place she felt safe. 

That, too, had ended in tragedy, but she thinks she wants to find it again. It’s a simple dream and yet it thrills her. A little place that’s just her own, away from the country that had not accepted her and the people who shunned her.

She could dye her hair or wear a scarf, she could walk the streets with the people and not intimidate or scare them away, she could have a garden. At night, she could make her way to an empty field to greet her son, and watch him fly away and be free, his fire a weapon for no one. That would be enough for her.

And then, when she was in her haven, she would think about what happened, she would process her time in Westeros and try, _try_ to believe that she isn’t like her father, that the wildfire was not her plan, was not her intention. That the lives lost were not a result of a deep-seated madness that laid dormant until her ambition grew too strong to contain it.

She smiles to herself, letting a moment of pride take her, but she knows it’s not so easy.

It would take nearly a day to cross the Narrow Sea. Already, she feels the emptiness of hunger, and the chill had long since numbed her limbs. She’s tired, drained. In the sky, against the harsh winds, she could become weak or ill. It would be unwise to leave now.

She could stay here for at least a night, but the edge of the forest was miles away, and there was nothing near start a fire with. Drogon would bring her food, he had done so before when they fled Meereen, but he would grow bored and want to explore. If he did they would be exposed and people would be curious as to why he was in the North at all. They could try and shoot him down. 

_Home._ The thought energized something in her and she leaves the cover of the alcove, not surprised to find the sun’s light fading from the sky. Drogon, her sweet son, is curled up sleeping, the snow around him melted and exposing a muddy ground. She walks right into it, the sloshing of the melted ice stirring him.

“Keep me warm?” She asks in a small, slightly raspy voice. She had not said a word in hours.

He huffs, the breath falling on her like a welcome blanket. He lifts his head slight, and she takes the invitation, settling beside him in the damp dirt. It’s only uncomfortable for a moment, but he encircles her, trapping her in the heat of his body and she finally lets the dagger drop to the ground, her fingers stiff from their grip. Soon after she gives into her exhaustion.

She was awoken by Drogon, his quick movements ripping her from a dreamless sleep.

It’s dawn, the soft light of the moon becoming overpowered by the rays of the sun. She’s warm, and her fingers no longer ache from the cold. She looks around, somewhat on edge, to see what had him standing at attention.

She sees movement first, and it takes a split second to realize what it is. A spot of white, moving through the snow towards them. _Ghost._

She shoots up, alarmed, waiting to see something else come over the hilly landscape, a pack of wolves or a person following him. 

Nothing follows, it’s only Ghost, slowly making his way to her before he stops at a safe distance, eyeing Drogon suspiciously.

He watches her closely, expectantly, and curiosity drives her forward. 

Her heart clenches, reaching for a deeper meaning for his presence. She had not really interacted with the direwolf in Winterfell, as it seemed he preferred to stay in the shadows and watch, and Jon never indicated that he wanted her to meet him. But he must know something, must have a strong connection to Jon and must have noticed the gentle _thing_ between them in Winterfell. _Did he do it on his own? Can he even feel Jon this far North?_

She stops in front of him. “What are you doing here?” she asks gently.

Of course, he doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t feel ignored.

He walks forward, slowly and deliberately until he’s within arm’s length of her. She feels safe enough to reach out her hand, and he presses his face into it. Tears fill her eyes. The affection, although slight, is needed more that she thought.

She strokes his head for a while, saying goodbye in her own way, but his head shoots up unexpectedly, and he turns, looking in the direction he came.

Her eyes follow and her stomach sinks when she sees a person, nothing but a heap of furs at this distance but they’re approaching her.

She backs away, reminding herself that her son would not let harm come to her.

As they near, the figure becomes more detailed. She can see it’s a man, she can see he’s bundled in layers of fur. _A Northman._

 _I have to kill him_ , she concludes with misery. A Northman would run to Sansa, would tell her of the Dragon Queen’s whereabouts, and Daenerys had no trouble believing the girl would jump at the chance to warn the rest of the Kingdoms and declare herself the savior of Westeros, even if it took blaming her own brother in the process.

Then, she spots the red hair on him, and the furs become noticeably those of the Freefolk and not the dark, heavy cloaks of the Northerners. _Tormund._

She still uneasy, but the bitterness leaves her. If he had any ill feelings towards her, he was courteous enough to keep them hidden.

“The Dragon Queen!” he declares when he’s near enough to be heard. “That’s why you brought me all the way out here, isn’t it you damn wolf?”

There is a strangely jovial tone to his voice.

“What are you doin’ all the way out here, little queen?” he asks with curious concern. “Don’t you have yourself a crown to be takin’?”

“Not anymore.” She answers cryptically.

“Don’t tell me that southern queen defeated you?” disbelief colors his voice.

She smiles at him, the admiration in his voice apparent and somewhat validating. “She didn’t,” she confirms. “But things went…unexpectedly and it’s in everyone’s best interest if I refuse the crown and leave it to someone else.”

He looks thoroughly unconvinced but pushes on. “I doubt that very much but doesn’t explain why you’re all the way up here.”

“I don’t plan to be for long. I just needed to get as far away from the south as I could.”

“Where will you be goin’ then, Dragon Queen?”

She can’t help the sadness she feels. “Away from Westeros.”

Mercifully, he catches on, and simply nods in understanding. “Those southerners don’t know anythin’ about loyalty.”

She averts her eyes, distraction herself with petting Ghost.

“And Snow? The little crow talked about you like you were our last hope.”

It’s unexpected and hurts to hear with everything that’s happened. They both know there is more meaning behind his words. Her eyes burn with the sting of tears, but she doesn’t let them fall. She gives him a weak smile, shaking her head. “He’s in the south.”

Pity mares his features and she hates it. She doesn’t want anyone’s pity.

Daenerys clears her throat and blinks the tears away. “Do you know why he’s brought you here?”

Her eyes flicker to Ghost, his own currently closed in contentment at her light touch.

“No idea, but I’m glad he did,” he replies. “It’s too cold up here for you to be dressed in nothin’ but that,” he waves his hand out, his tone disapproving. “You’re practically naked. And you’re flyin’ in these winds without gloves on, that’s a sure way to lose a finger to frostbite. And when was the last time you ate?”

It’s strange to have someone care to insistently, so loudly. _Did ever Tyrion care to ask? Did anyone grow concerned when I didn’t eat Varys’ poisoned food? Did Jon think at all about the grief in my heart? Did anyone truly care?_

Missandei did. Jorah did. But they were gone now, and after Missandei, Grey Worm is as cold and hardened as Daenerys is. Not that she could blame him, they both tried to love and it ended in terribly.

The stranger in front of her cared for some reason.

“I didn’t…I had to leave with what was on my person. It was all rather hasty, I’m afraid.” She tries to sound light, amused at her folly. He sees passed it.

He shakes his head, walking up to her, only stopping when Drogon shifts behind her. She can feel her son eyeing him, warning him.

Tormund holds up his hands in surrender. “I ain’t gonna hurt her.”

After a tense moment, he continues, towering over her when he stops.

He starts to remove his gloves. “Take these for now, before your small fingers turn blue. I’ll find a fur that’ll fit you and bring it back, along with some bread and water.”

She immediately declines. “Tormund please, I’ll be leaving within hour—”

“Then you’ll fall off that dragon halfway across the sea. That’s were your headed isn’t it? East? I reckon you have a couple more hours flyin in the cold,” She doesn’t reply, only grabs onto the gloves when he shoves them into her hands. “You look dead on your feet already, Dragon Queen. We can spare some furs and you can spare a few more hours.”

“ _We?_ ”

“Aye, the Freefolk. We’re headed back to the wall.”

“Why? Jon said you spent years fighting to cross it.”

“It’s home,” He grins at her and shrugs. “And it’s safe now because of you.”

It’s the nearest to gratitude that she’s gotten for her sacrifices.

She slips on the gloves. They don’t fit well, twice as large as her own hands, but she’s grateful. “Thank you.” She says softly.

He nods, stepping away from her. “I’ll be back, Dragon Queen. You stay put.”

He starts walking away without her reply, but she calls to him before he can get too far.

“Tormund!” he turns, his face an open. She finds it refreshing, someone who isn’t wearing a mask of lies, someone who isn’t hiding what he feels. “No one can know that I’m here.”

Concern again, easy and open. He gives her a firm nod before carrying on.

She expects Ghost to follow, but he stares after Tormund for a minute and then turns back to her, nudging her hand.

A laugh escapes her, small but genuine. “You’re a sweet boy.”

She considers leaving now, her spirits a little up, but she finds that she doesn’t want to. Perhaps she should spend the hours saying goodbye, staring out into the vastness of the landscape that would never be hers to rule and protect.

She feels like she’s failed. Not only her brother, but her entire family, her ancestors. Would she ever escape the burden of the crown she lost? Perhaps it would only turn to guilt. 

She thinks now that she should have warned him about Varys’ letters to the nobles, but it never crossed her mind. Instead of fretting over it, however, she dismisses it. It isn’t her future to worry about anymore. He would learn in time just how far Varys’ betrayal ran and perhaps he would have the sense to look past her and follow the trail back to his sister.

But then again, his loyalties were obvious. _His queen,_ he called her, but many of his actions told her otherwise. The only reason she believed he _did_ love her, in his own way, was because she was here now, escaping from the sins he insisted were not hers.

She wonders, withholding her concern, what kind of future awaits this country. He’s a good man, at least, and she hopes he’ll grow wiser, more careful with who he trusts. Sansa would have her independence, of that she’s sure, and in her bitterness she thinks how unfair it is that scheming and betraying family rewarded her. Perhaps Daenerys should have done that. Been more ruthless, less caring and concerned with others. There is more to Sansa Stark, she knows, but Daenerys will never know it. She’s glad for that.

The hours pass without incident. She switches between walking the small clearing with Ghost and standing by Drogon keep warm. Like Jon, she packs away the hopes she had, and it hurts differently. Not memories, but unfulfilled dreams. All the ways she wanted to better the lives of the smallfolk, all the opportunities she wanted to give people. She packs away the confidence she had when they first arrived at Dragonstone, knowing she would only grow bitter now if she thought of all the ways her conquest failed, of all the ways she trusted Tyrion’s mercy instead of her dragon’s blood.

Later, she’ll mourn better. She’ll scream and cry and throw things and express her frustration, but not until she’s home, wherever that is.

By the time Tormund returns she’s grown weary and her head has begun to hurt. She must look as miserable as she feels because he only chuckles when he looks her over.

“You southerners think you’re so tough.”

She isn’t a southerner, but she doesn’t correct him. Instead, she rolls her eyes at his teasing smile.

“I brought you this. I think it’ll fit decent,” he says, handing her a bundle of fur. It’s rough and worn, but she’s pleased to find that when she unravels it, it’s a coat. A cloak would have done her no good in the air. She quickly puts it on, and the sting of the air is immediately dulled. “And skin of water and a couple loaves of hard bread. I even stole you some leftover meat from yesterday.”

He gives it all to her in a small pouch, one she can wear across her body in the sky.

“Eat the meat now,” he insists. “Before you go up in the sky.”

She nods, opening the pouch, pulling out the dried slices of meat. She bites into it, unphased by the toughness of it. She’d eaten less pleasant things. 

“Thank you for this.” she says, once she’s taken a few bites.

“Least I could do, really,” he replies easily. And then his face softens. “You could come with us, you know. We’d keep you safe.”

She’s slightly overwhelmed, tears prickle at her eyes. She knows he means it. Part of her wants to say yes. The Freefolk wouldn’t treat her like a queen but she’d earned their respect. She could find home with them, if she tried. But Drogon and her…dragons aren’t made for the cold.

“I can’t.” she replies, her voice thick with emotion.

He nods, sighing, but he doesn’t ask her to explain. “The sun will be goin’ down soon, and you shouldn’t be flyin’ over the sea in the dark. Stay one more night and leave at first light. That coat there should keep you warm enough, along with that dragon of yours.”

She nods at his advice. Leaving now would mean arriving in Essos early into the next day, and anyone could spot her atop Drogon. At night, at least, the only story people could tell was that they saw a shadow of a dragon in the sky. 

He looks her over again, and then reaches to the belt at his waist. He takes out a small knife, crudely made with a wooden handle. “If you run into trouble before you get where your goin’.”

She smiles at his thoughtfulness and shakes her head. “It’s alright, Jon gave me a dagger for the same reason.”

He scoffs but moves to put it away. “Snow had some sense, at least. Don’t worry, Dragon Queen. If I see him again, I’ll ring his head like a bell.”

She doesn’t tell him Jon is stuck in King’s Landing. Perhaps he would visit, all kings traveled the country at least once in their lifetime, but it’s a future that doesn’t concern her anymore. So, she laughs at his jest, and goes back to tearing at the meat.

“I need to be gettin’ back,” he says with some regret. “Before they start to wonder where I am and try to come after me.”

“Of course. Thank you, again. You don’t know how much you’ve helped me.”

“You saved my life and you saved my home, I won’t ever forget that,” his tone is solemn, like a vow. “Neither will the Freefolk. The southerners don’t know how much they owe you, but you’ll always have friends beyond the wall.”

This time, she lets the tears slip, just one or two, but his promise makes her believe that she isn’t so terrible, that she isn’t her father.

“Come on, wolf,” He backs up at the sight of her tears, sensing her need for privacy. “Should get back to camp before nightfall.”

Ghost sits, making his preference clear. She wonders if he can feel how lost she is, how alone.

“It’s alright, he can stay a while longer.”

“Well…” he gives her an unsure nod, clearly unsure of how to leave things. “I wish you good fortune, Dragon Queen.”

With that, he turns to leave, and she watches in fondness as he shrinks further into the distance.

After, she finishes of her meager meal and takes a few sips of the water. She isn’t full, but the emptiness in her stomach lessens, and she starts to feel more alert.

When the sun starts to dip below the horizon, she sits with Ghost in the snow, his head falling into her lap. She talks to him quietly, airing her slight self-pity to someone who would never use it against her, telling him how she wished they had more time, that she wished she trusted the right people, that parts of her regrets coming here at all.

If they are connected, somehow, she hopes Jon will know all this as well.

She settles in between her son and Jon’s wolf, warm enough in the furs Tormund brought her, and drifts into unconsciousness, her thoughts on nothing but her home away from here.

When she wakes at dawn, Ghost is gone, the pawprints in the snow fresh and clear. She nibbles at the bread, waking herself up with a splash of the cold water from the skin. Drogon senses their upcoming departure and stretches out his wings, making noises of discontent at her slow pace.

“Are you ready to leave this place, my love?” she asks, stroking his snout. He would mourn too, she thinks, when he doesn’t need to worry about her so much. She suspects he’ll fly off on his own again, this time to grieve for his brothers. Another piece of her that would remain forever changed.

He lowers his wing in response, and she climbs up. He doesn’t wait for her command and in the next moment they’re flying east, and she holds onto a sliver of hope that she’ll find her home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! I have a tendency to ramble and this fic is no exception.🙈Sorry if you don't like the rambling but I just like getting caught up inside their heads and before I know it, I'm 25k.😬

There was nothing for him to do but think.

Inside the small room he could only stare up at the dingy ceiling and reflect on all the things that led him here.

Hours turned to days, which stretched to weeks. Maybe even a month now but he isn’t sure.

At first, there was nothing but sadness in his heart. He mourned, but he wasn’t sure why. She was alive somewhere, and safe. In his sadness he found the guilt, heavy and nearly debilitating. He replayed every moment in his head, every instance from the time they reached Winterfell, happy and hopeful, to the moment she left. She had a tenderness for him still, but he could sense the resentment too. She wasn’t here to ask, so all he’s able to is wonder how his actions felt to her, what everyone’s actions told her. In that, came the anger. Every day, there’s a new target for his ire; his family, his people, her advisors, though more often than not it focused on him.

He cycled through the three every hour, part of him believing that he could somehow go back and fix everything. He imagined the ‘what ifs’ until the useless hope peaked in frustration when he remembered that he couldn’t change anything, and reality sent him plummeting him back onto the cold, hard bed of his cell.

He feels like he’s going mad.

He isn’t allowed visitors, per Grey Worm’s orders, though Jon understands why. They needed to keep up their lie. Unsullied and Dothraki bring him his meals. Sometimes the tray is shoved roughly into his hands, other times it’s tossed at him and he has to catch it before it hits the ground. No one ever speaks to him. He doesn’t blame them. In some ways, he feels like he _did_ kill her.

Grey Worm keeps him informed when he comes to see him. They have control of the city and keep it from descending into a violent pool of unrest. He says Tyrion is wary of them, as turned on them as he was on Daenerys, but he doesn’t tell them to stop or order them to leave. That always stirs the anger, because Jon can see now that they’re being used as she was, and at the end of it all the people would sigh in relief when they left these shores.

He tells Jon that he’s allowed for a summit to be called, so his punishment is witnessed by all and upheld. He wouldn’t be allowed to attend. Not that Jon cares, he dreads seeing the look of satisfaction on Sansa’s face when she thinks she was right to mistrust Daenerys, to betray him and spread his secret.

Arya tries and fails to get to him many times. Grey Worm reports four attempts she’s made, including her raising her sword to the guards posted at the end of the hall. Mercifully, they did not harm her when they disarmed her, as Grey Worm made it clear that her death would only complicate the punishment Jon faced for their queen’s death.

When Jon tries to thank him, Grey Worm only looks at him stoically and repeats the same thing, _I’m doing it for her, not for you._

Every time he does, Jon’s reminded of her goodness. The decisions Grey Worm is making are his own, but he’s doing what she would want him to do. If she’d stayed, the streets would be cleaned up and the people tended to without question. If Arya stood against her men, she would hesitate in allowing them to harm her. Jon regrets more than anything that he ever doubted it.

With every incident involving Arya, he finds that he wants to see her less and less. He didn’t want her pity, her sadness for his misery when she told them that they were right. He had plenty of time to replay the events of their time in Winterfell, and every time he comes closer to realizing that his family had changed. It feels strange to be disappointed in them, like it isn’t his place to criticize their judgments, but in that disappointment, he finds the glaring flaws that Daenerys understood right away.

Their mistrust was rooted in prejudice, their judgments based on a past Daenerys had no control over. Arya lost interest anyone that wasn’t her family and her curiosity hardened into suspicion. Thinking of Sansa, he realizes the ambition and resilience he admired in her gained the companion of greed, and that was a much more tempting motivator than her love for him.

Neither of his sisters _tried._ Even after he asked, they remained stubborn and cold towards the woman who saved their home, and he merely shrugged and told himself that they would come around. He didn’t try either.

When he didn’t want to think of his family, he thought of Varys and Tyrion. Dany’s advisors were openly losing faith in her, plotting against her for no reason other than his newly discovered parentage, and he did nothing but push away his claim like it would go away if he didn’t acknowledge it. But once again, she was right. The secret took on a life of its own and he couldn’t control what people did with it.

Without fail, all the disappointed and anger at other people led back to him. His inaction and passiveness allowed them to move forward and surround her, trap her in and isolate her from everything but her own grief and pain. She was alone and he even though he told himself, and her, that he was there for her, he hardly did anything to show it.

There were other targets of his anger when he exhausted himself. Ghosts of his past, people that he could blame when it became suffocating. Ned should have told him; he should have warned him. Even if he believed the secret was long since buried and forgotten, Jon should have known who his mother was. Who his _father_ was. A person he didn’t think he needed to know and knowing ruined his life in more ways than one.

It’s easy to accept that Ned Stark was never his father. Jon always felt separate from the family anyway, lucky that Ned chose to love him as he loved his trueborn children when so many other lords looked the other way. It felt like a fluke, in some ways, and so Jon was aware of the delicacy of their relationship, like it could snap at any moment. But he knows Ned loved him as a son, and Jon loved him as a father. Discovering that he wasn’t only shifted their relationship from father and bastard son to uncle and nephew. It didn’t feel any better but also not any worse.

Rhaegar, though, Jon didn’t know what to think. Jon didn’t know anything about the man except for the stories he was told in the North. None of them were favorable. Sam told him he and Lyanna were married, that they loved each other. But that was another abstract idea to come to terms with. Jon wished he knew more. About both of them. Lyanna was wild, free, and beloved by the people of the North. And she loved Jon. It should warm his heart, but it’s quite hard to believe without any reassurance from anybody that knew her or Rhaegar. It felts almost like a lie and a false blanket of hope he was trying to comfort himself with.

But none of it mattered anyway. Ned was his father, that’s all he knew growing up. Lyanna Stark was his mother, and she loved him in the short time she carried and birthed him. Rhaegar was his father, and it ruined everything for _her_. In the end, all that mattered was the claim the it gave him, the danger of it, and he didn’t see it until it was too late.

The only constant he had was his love for her, and despite all the shades it went through, all the reasons he told himself he shouldn’t, it stood strong and unwilling to be blemished. He would give anything to go back in time and realize it sooner, to kiss her back like she wanted, to pull her close like she needed. 

Even locked in the cell, forced to acknowledge his mistakes, Jon is sure in his choice. He doesn’t want to be king. He doesn’t feel worthy of it, especially when he knows there is someone better, someone who was forced from her lands because she was burdened by the sins and mistakes of others while he was hoisted up by them.

In the darkest moments, Jon wonders why Grey Worm didn’t take his life. He thinks he would prefer death to whatever awaited him. The Night King was defeated and gone, his family was safe and didn’t need him anymore. She was gone. What more is there for him to live for? His purpose was fulfilled, he thinks, and he didn’t feel the slightest bit accomplished or proud of it.

Grey Worm comes to him one afternoon and tells him that things are progressing. The lords of Westeros will be arriving any day now to decide the fate of the country and the fate of him. He tells him that both the Unsullied and Dothraki planned to vacate the city once his sentence is handed down and leave the rest of the rebuilding to the people who would live here.

A few days later, he relays the events of the summit with an impassive voice. _The lords will choose their own king. When one dies, they’ll choose the next one instead of allowing the crown to be passed on to the dead king’s heirs._

Jon could think of a hundred ways the new process could go wrong, how it could end the death of prominent men who dreamt too big, and the harsh oppression of people who could do better. He doesn’t care enough to voice them, though.

“Who is it, then?” He asks, his voice raspy and dry from his long days of unbroken silence. “Tyrion?”

He shakes his head. “Your brother.”

“Bran?” His confusion is apparent. His brother was unfeeling, cold, despondent. Everything she was not but they chose him anyway.

Grey Worm shrugs, obviously uncaring about the entire ordeal.

The next day, Tyrion is allowed into his cell, his face tired and worn. Jon wonders if the man has any guilt eating away at him like he does. If anything, he deserves it more. She trusted him from the beginning, and he didn’t sit idly by and watch her fail, he helped it along and then he abandoned her, turned on her when the failures become too much.

The look on his face is infuriating, the sadness for him, the pity.

Jon can only imagine how he looks, unwashed and unkept. He supposes it’s a blessing, to look like the man who had no choice but to kill the woman he loved.

“I’m sorry you weren’t given more suitable rooms,” he starts in apology. “We did try, but we needed to keep the peace.”

Jon isn’t sure he believed him. Tyrion was smart enough to guess what came after he killed her, but he still asked him to do it without hesitation.

He stays quiet, staring at him.

Tyrion clears his throat. “You’ll be happy to hear that I’ve bargained for your life, though you must understand that it was the only freedom Grey Worm was willing to give you. As a gesture of goodwill, our new king has decided to send you to the Night’s Watch.”

 _Our new king._ He hates the way it sounds, how easily she was replaced by the man who was once her Hand.

“There’s still a Night’s Watch?”

Tyrion gives him a long look before answering. “The world will always need a home for bastards and broken men,” He wants to laugh. _Which one am I?_ “You shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.”

It’s a weight lifted from him really, the very burden they tried to force upon him. He expected something like it, but the implications hurt, nonetheless. He knows why. _She_ is still alive, still somewhere out in this world, unknowingly holding his most whispered and vulnerable hopes in her hands. They were already lost to him before, his sentence just solidifies it.

At his silence, Tyrion keeps going. “Sansa and Arya wanted you freed, but they understand our new king needs to make peace.”

He only nods, not even trying to read into how much they fought for him, or how much they didn’t.

When Tyrion realizes that he isn’t going to say much more, he tentatively steps forward, his face morphing into something akin to empathy. “I know it was wrong of me to ask, and I know it must have been hard for you,” he starts, his voice low. “But you did the right thing. You saved Westeros. They’ll never truly know how much.”

He shakes his head. “ _She_ saved Westeros. She saved the world from the white walkers and no one will remember her for it.”

“ _We_ will.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t have asked me to do it at all.” he says a bit sharply, his anger and bitterness bleeding through.

Tyrion has the decency to looked shamed at his words.

“There will be a ship,” he continues after a moment. “To take you to White Harbor. From there, you’ll return the Wall.”

He nods again, ready for Tyrion to leave and let him sit with the renewed guilt. “And you?” It seems unfair to Jon that he should carry on his life pretending that he didn’t betray his queen.

“Your brother has named me Hand,” he answers cautiously. “I’ll be staying in King’s Landing, and hopefully we can all heal and move forward from this tragedy.”

He can’t hold it in anymore. “It wasn’t her. You know that.”

“What?”

“The wildfire,” he says impatiently. “I’ve had nothing but time to think about it. It was _your_ sister who planted it in the city—”

“And it was Daenerys who lit the flames,” he cuts him off gently. “The bells rang, the city had surrendered, and she rained fire upon them anyway.”

He’s had time to think too, Jon realizes, time to rationalize his choices and make himself believe that he didn’t call for the death of someone who didn’t deserve it. The guilt is only a small, nearly insignificant price to pay, if he has any at all. 

As useless as it is now, Jon defends her. “You know she didn’t mean for it to happen. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have done it. If her advisors had warned her of all the possibilities—”

“Are you going to blame everyone but her?”

“I’m blaming everyone who is responsible. Myself included. _We_ did that to her. All of us.”

Tyrion lets out a sharp exhale, angry too now, though Jon knows it’s for the wrong reasons. “You’re upset, I understand that. But we did everything we could have, and she didn’t listen. She grew too big, too powerful. Gods only know what she could have done next.”

He shakes his head, exasperated. “You had faith in her, once. You should have held onto it a bit longer. She deserved the courtesy, if nothing else.”

“I’m afraid that’s where we differ, Jon,” he replies grimly. “I had faith until it became too dangerous. Now it’s time for us to heal and move on.”

“Seems a simple task for you.”

“It’s not, but I can’t allow the guilt to swallow me whole.”

He moves to leave, done with their confrontation.

Jon has more to say, plenty more to say, but it won’t change anything, so he holds his tongue. He hopes the guilt will catch up with Tyrion once his denial runs short.

The door closes gently, and Jon hears the muffled sounds of the locks being slid back into place.

\---------------

He’s taken up in shackles to what remained of the keep. He didn’t know the extent of the damage beyond the throne room, but he’s surprised to find that the lower levels of the castle were mostly intact, untouched by dragonfire or wildfire.

He’s pushed down a narrow hallway, in the servant’s quarters if he had to guess, and led to a small room. There’s only a narrow bed and in the corner, a bath already drawn for him. On the bed is his cloak, a change of clothes, and leaning up against the frame is Longclaw. The last of his possessions, the only things he could call his. 

“You bathe,” Grey Worm commands, as he unlocks the chains on his wrists. “Food will be brought to you at supper and tomorrow you will leave the city.”

“Thank you. Will you leave tomorrow, too?”

“Yes,” he replies. “I fulfilled my duty. Now I leave and take my men to find peace.”

“Will…are you going to look for her?” he whispers.

“No,” he answers with hesitation. “My Queen will know where to find me if she needs me. She does not want to be found. By anyone.” He gives Jon a pointed look.

He nods. “I know.”

He wouldn’t risk her safety by seeking her out, not right now. Dangerously, though, he knows after some time passed and they’d both shrunken back into obscurity the urge might overtake him, and he find a way to Essos at least once to see if she found happiness. He wouldn’t disturb her, he wouldn’t invade the life she found for herself, but if he could see her one last time, when she was healed from all the pain he’d helped inflict upon her…he could find peace too.

“This is goodbye, then, Jon Snow,” Grey Worm says. “I wish you well.”

Jon gives him a weak smile. “You too.”

“We did the right thing.” He assures, attempting to quell the sadness in Jon’s tone.

He doesn’t doubt for a moment. It was the only thing he did right. “We did.”

\---------------

It’s his first night in soft bed. He’s warm, clean, and sated. Despite his restless nights before, he was thankful to having nothing greet him when he closed his eyes, just an empty darkness. Here, though, his body is comfortable, and he’s able to dream.

It’s warm. The air around him is fresh, and he can feel a slight breeze. He glances up to see a clear sky, blue and vibrant, not a cloud in sight. He takes a brief look around himself, realizing that he’s surrounded by greenery. There’s a white stone wall to his right, nearly hidden behind layers of intertwined vines. There are trees next to him, some tall and luscious, though most are short and skinny with a few leaves and white blossoms scattered here and there. Shrubbery brushes against his bare legs, and only then does he notice that he’s dressed in nothing but a light tunic and linen trousers. He’s standing on dirt, but just a little ahead he sees a cobblestone walkway.

His curiosity gets the best of him and he moves to step over the bushes, but a light humming stops him cold.

Moments later, he sees _her_ walking up the path.

She isn’t close, just out of his reach, but he remains still and frozen, afraid that he would do something to pull himself from the dream and lose sight of her.

She’s different. Her skin is brighter, kissed by the sun. Her silver tresses are unbound, the elaborate braids and curls brushed into soft waves. Her feet are bare, and she’s wrapped in a soft blue dress.

She looks younger, somehow, but he knows she isn’t. The dark spots under her eyes are gone, the worry from her face smoothed over to serene perfection. And her eyes. They’re the brightest he’s ever seen them, dancing with a lightness that Westeros did not give her. She looks happy. Exactly how she should always look.

Time moves slower in his dreams, because she doesn’t look to be in a hurry, or to be doing anything at all except letting her eyes roam the tiny forest that surrounds her. His breathe catches in his throat when her gaze circles to his hiding spot, but she doesn’t notice him at all. She turns her body away from him, bringing her attention to the other side of the walkway, equally covered in bright flowers and deep green leaves.

Unable to see her face, he grows anxious, worried that it meant his time was running short. He steps forward at the same time she turns her head towards the white building. A wide smile breaks across her face and she takes a few steps forward before crouching down, holding out her arms.

A child slowly waddles up to her on unsure feet, their tiny arms held out, fingers grasping the air in enthusiasm. 

Jon can’t see the face of the babe, but the head of short, silver curls tells him exactly who they are.

She’s saying something to her child, encouraging them, but Jon can’t make out the words.

His heart constricts in his chest and he’s overwhelmed with a flood of emotions.

“ _Dany…”_ her name escapes him before he can remember where he is and she stops, looking up in his direction.

His breath catches in his throat and then everything is gone, replaced by darkness. He blinks, struggling to adjust to the dullness of his room. The air is stagnant and the chill in the air prickles his arms.

He shuts his eyes, willing himself to fall back into it, but he knows it’s over.

Like in his dream, his chest painfully tightens with longing and happiness and heartbreak. Though it wasn’t real, he desperately hopes it’s something that’s possible for her. It’s why he told her to leave. She deserved more than anything the peace that surrounded her and the pure joy at seeing a child of her own blood running towards her. She deserves to love without fear or pain and despite the envy he feels, he prays that she’ll have it.

He’s unable to sleep after that, forcing himself to replay the dream in his head, knowing the images would fade a lot quicker than memories if he didn’t. It’s torturous, yet it calms and reassures him.

Sometime after light peaks through the small window, he’s retrieved by guards. Westerosi men this time, dressed in black.

He’s escorted from the Red Keep quietly and they lead him to the Mud Gate, where the ship to take him North is waiting. Its bustling with soldiers, Unsullied and Dothraki loading into the remainder of the Targaryen fleet.

He looks up the sails, still proudly displaying the three-headed dragon of the ruined House. Their House. Guilt follows his every step and he naively tells himself that his dream was true, that she won’t be the last.

When they arrive at the private dock hanging off the edge of the city outside a wall of stone, he sees them, the last of the Starks. Sansa stands on the dock as proud and poised as a queen, Arya silent and contemplative beside her. Bran, the king of the Seven Kingdoms, sits quietly next to them, his demeanor so unlike what Jon believed to be required of a king.

Sansa smiles at him when he gets close, sad and genuine, and he can’t help but smile back.

“Wardeness of the North,” he greets. “Father would be proud.”

The smile becomes strained at the mention of her title. He knows now that it isn’t the one she truly wanted. He had held off his suspicions for so long because it felt like an unfair judgment of her character. Now he isn’t so sure, now he remembers clearly the instances where she’d spoken out against him, kept things from him.

“I wish there had been another way,” She says joylessly. She isn’t talking about his exile. “Can you forgive me?”

Tears fill her eyes, and she looks regretful. It stabs at his heart despite everything. But he couldn’t say he forgave her, not truly. Not yet. “You did what you thought was right.”

She hurt by his response but she tentatively steps towards him and he still hugs her tight.

He turns to Arya, the hurt a little more acute when he looks at her. If he had her on his side, things could have been different.

She looks pained, equally aware that this goodbye has possibility to be the final one between them.

“You’re not going home.” He states. He knows her well; he knows she always wanted more adventure than the North had to offer, though he’s still unprepared for the slight shake of her head that confirmed it.

“Where will you go?” he finally asks, the words nearly getting stuck in his throat.

She shrugs, a small smile on her face, her eyes sparking with excitement. He’s glad to see that she isn’t jaded enough to disregard the youthful anticipation and desire to see what else life has to offer.

He encourages it with a smile, a small laugh escaping him despite the emptiness that’s starting to gather in him. “You have your needle?”

She nods, gesturing to her him. “Right here.”

The tears well up in her eyes and he feels them in his own. When he hugs her, he lets them fall. In his head he tells her to take advantage of all the opportunities she’ll be given and not let the joys in life slip through her fingers.

He moves to Bran, but he doesn’t know what to say. It doesn’t feel like it is Bran, any part of him. He isn’t sure how to say goodbye to someone he doesn’t know.

He wonders if he should kneel, as one does before a king, but in that his conviction is strong and stubborn. Bran was not the one he fought for or the one who proved themselves worthy a thousand times over. Wherever she is, she is still his queen.

Bran takes pity on him and turns his chair to face out to sea. “Come with me.” He says softly, rolling towards the end of the dock.

He bows his head to his sisters and follows Bran, stopping in front of the ship that would take him away from this place.

_King Bran._

He pushes down the distaste and faces his brother with a weak smile.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” he starts, the slightest bit of empathy coloring his words. “But you did the right thing.” His anger jumps to the surface but before he can reply, Bran continues, unperturbed by his rise in emotion. “She’ll be safe where she’s going.”

He freezes, thinking he might have misheard him, but Bran easily detects the panic on his face.

“I’m the Three-Eyed Raven, Jon,” he explains. He still doesn’t quite know what it means. “I saw it the moment you told her to leave.”

“You didn’t say anything,” he states cautiously.

“I didn’t,” Bran replies. “There would be no point in hunting down the Dragon Queen, nothing but more death and an unrestrained dragon.”

“Is that the only reason?” he asks stiffly.

Bran stares up at him, studying him. Jon feels uncomfortable under his gaze.

“You were right. Cersei planted the wildfire,” he eventually replies. “And she would have ordered the caches to be lit if Daenerys hadn’t continued the attack herself. Either way, the city would have burned.”

“You knew this?” The thought frightens him, angers him.

“I knew it was one of many possibilities.”

He offers no more and Jon is too stunned to accept what it means. He closes his eyes, calming himself because the confrontation is too late to have.

“If I had told you before, things had the potential to become worse,” Bran explains. “There were too many unpredictable pieces at play. Those who held the most power needed to be neutralized for the sake of themselves as well as everyone else.”

“Daenerys?” he asks with contempt.

He nods. “And you.”

“We weren’t _unpredictable_.”

“No, you weren’t,” he replies simply, turning his head back to their sisters.

He sighs. “You said she’ll be safe...Will she be happy?” Images of his dream flash through his mind.

“It’s a possibility,” he says.

Jon nods, accepting that’s the clearest answer he’ll get from his cryptic brother. It would have to be enough.

“I suppose this is it, then,” he says. “I wish you well…brother.” _Your Grace, My King_ …they would just be empty words.

Bran eyes him closely, his brows coming together in the smallest pass of emotion. All at once, they smooth over, Bran’s rigid posture relaxes, and the youth returns to his face in the form of a slight smile.

“I’ll see you again, Jon,” he promises. “This isn’t goodbye.”

He tries not to grimace. An obligatory trip to the North sometime in the future, he assumes. “If I have your leave, perhaps I’ll ride down to Winterfell to visit you all.”

Bran stares up at him, for a moment looking like he wants to say more, but whatever emotions he had are spent and he directs his eyes to the ship, all signs of affection leaving him. “You should leave. The Dragon Queen’s fleet will leave within the hour, it’s best not to let them see you on open water.”

He doesn’t argue and stalks up the gangway, the steps easier that he thought they would be. Once he’s onboard, the crewmen begin to ready the ship for departure, not sparing him a glance.

He sees all three together on the dock now, watching him with solemn faces. He wonders what they see on his face. While there is a small misery accompanying his punishment, the sense escape is more upfront, much more of a relief. 

He loves them, but he’s realized he feels obligated to consider them with every choice he makes. It’s a weakness Jon wishes he was strong enough to overcome and having them in his life permanently would only ensure that he never will. He’s running away, he knows he is, but the bitterness builds with every passing day, urging him to realize that their love for him was not enough to keep them from using him as their pawn.

As the ship drifts further away from the docks, their faces become distant, and whatever sorrow they feel watching him leave doesn’t reach him. He turns away and stares ahead at the vast sea before him, finding the view not nearly as disappointing at the one behind him.

\---------------

When he sees the Wall peak over the horizon, he wants to laugh at his circumstance, the place he ends up after all he’d done.

He wasn’t one to seek glory, or praise, or thanks, but he never thought he’s be discarded so easily after all the fighting was over. The further North he got, the colder he felt. His initial relief quickly left him, and all that was left was an emptiness that he had little hope would be filled.

His companions are quiet, just as miserable as he is, and he’s thankful for the space they give him. 

No one treats him like a prisoner. They don’t look at him like he’s a queenslayer or a kinslayer. They kept a respectable distance on the small ship, giving him his own cabin and having his meals brought to him.

They’re treating him like a lord, like someone who hadn’t, as far as everyone knew, killed the very person who saved their lives not so long ago.

He doesn’t speak much but he listens to them, and occasionally they’ll exchange stories of their own bravery against the Army of the Dead. They speak of him riding Rhaegal into battle, their voices tinged with respect and awe. No one mentions her. No one cares to remember that she was right beside him, leading him and protecting him. No one mentions the warriors she lost or the courage and strength she showed.

_They’ll come to see you for what you are._

His own words come back to mock him, his blind faith in his people proving just how ill-equipped he was to be named King in the North, to challenge her and defy as if he were an equal.

Though he would never truly know, he’s beginning to feel the remnants of the icy reception she’d received when they arrived in Winterfell, and the loneliness she endured when she proved herself and was still excluded from the celebratory praise. It was all given to him and while he remembers looking at her and hoping she understood that _he_ was thankful, he knows now that it hadn’t been enough. He feels her pain in the absence of her as they tell their stories, he feels her alienation as he waits and waits for someone to acknowledge the part she played as their most powerful ally. It never comes, and they never mention her death, or his exile.

The Free Folk provide the only break from his descending mood, welcoming him with cheerful voices and slaps on his back as soon as they reach Castle Black. He can’t help but smile at their genuine reception, happy to be amongst people who had no reason or want to use him.

His bitterness dissolves a little more when he sees Ghost stalking towards him, Tormund trailing behind him with a wide grin.

He starts to kneel down and pet Ghost, but Tormund pulls him into a hug, laughing as if nothing was out of the norm.

“Little crow! It’s good to see you,” he says, his tone not quite matching his relaxed features. “I won’t lie, I expected you to return someday, just not so soon.”

Jon wonders if he knows why he’s here, if he judges him for the crime he’s admitted to committing.

Just as quickly as they surround him, the Free Folk disperse, going back to whatever preparations they were making. The men of the Night’s Watch, clearly overrun by the Free Folk, carry on as well, undisturbed by their guests.

“What are you doing here”?” he asks Tormund when it’s just the two of them.

“Going North, Snow,” he replies. “Going home. The crows here were… _kind_ enough to let us rest here before we take the tunnel.”

Jon smirks. “I’m sure they were.”

He sighs, taking in the Castle that he’d once chosen as home. He’s fallen completely, no longer King in the North, no longer Warden or Lord Commander. He wonders if he’ll have his same bed he had when he was a boy, crammed into a room with ten other men and no privacy.

“Come with me, Snow,” Tormund says, tugging on his arm. “We got a lot to talk about.”

\---------------

“What do you know,” Jon starts, taking a gulp of the ale he was given. “Gods know what you must have heard from travelers.”

They were able to leave the Castle without any trouble and make their way to the Free Folk camps just outside. He’s only just beginning to realize his punishment was a formality on Bran’s part. No one really cared if justice was served.

It’s just him and Tormund seated around the remnants of a small fire, the others making themselves sparse when Tormund demanded privacy.

“Aye, I’ve heard lots of stupid stories,” he concedes. “Ones that involve you. But they all tell me the same thing; the Dragon Queen is gone. I want to know how a woman with two dragons lost a war against a queen with none.”

He looks down, staring into the horn of ale, avoiding Tormund’s curious, almost interrogational, eyes.

“She lost a dragon,” he starts quietly. “They were ambushed by our enemies’ fleet when they reached Dragonstone. As I heard it, they shot him right out of the sky.”

“Seems to me, if your enemy has ships, you should know where they are,” he argues. “The little man, her advisor, did he not know?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. Taking a deep breath, he continues. “During the attack, her friend was taken hostage. Missandei.”

“The pretty dark-haired woman?”

He nods. “Daenerys went to King’s Landing to negotiate for her life, but they murdered her at the top the city gates. Right in from of her.”

“Negotiate? You don’t negotiate with someone who kills your dragon and steals your friend, you seek revenge.”

Looking back, he can’t help but agree. He’s always been one to advise caution, to look for the most peaceful way forward instead of enacting violence. He thinks he might have advised Daenerys the same way as Tyrion with Missandei’s capture, too afraid of the power she could wield if no one tried to temper her fire.

“She didn’t, she tried to make peace. She tried to be better than the mad queen people believed her to be but…”

“What happened?” he presses.

“We took the city with no trouble, but it wasn’t enough for her and she destroyed the castle with dragonfire. Cersei planted caches of wildfire beneath the city and the dragonfire ignited it. The city burned and thousands of people were killed.”

He looks back up at Tormund, expecting shock, but only seeing confusion on his face. “Is that why…” He trails off. “People say she’s dead.”

“She is,” he says with conviction.

“They say you killed her.”

“I did.”

His confusion deepens as he absorbs his words before his features settle in a grim expression. “People blamed her for it,” he concludes. “That why you’re here, isn’t it, Snow?”

He nods, waiting for the judgment, but he only gets empathy.

Instead, large hand comes down on his shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. “The south isn’t kind to anyone who wasn’t born there. You should come North with us, get away from it all.”

With that, he stands and starts to leave, and Jon feels the frustration come down on him. No one cares, no mourns for her like she deserves.

“That’s it?” he asks dully.

“What do you mean?”

“Is that all you have to say? I killed an ally, and no one seems to care.”

“Yes, then. That’s all I have to say,” he sits down again, closer to Jon. “Cause I know the truth. Taking that punishment for it was stupid and honorable, but I’d expect nothing less from you.”

“What do you mean you know the truth?”

Tormund eyes him for a moment, looking torn, before shaking his head to himself. “Think about coming North with us, Snow. You don’t have a home here.”

He leaves before Jon can question him further.

\---------------

That night, he lays on a pile of furs in a small tent, choosing to remain with the Free Folk rather than returning to the memories of Castle Black.

He concludes very quickly that going North of the wall is possible. The brothers of the Night’s Watch don’t care any longer to enforce the laws when they don’t have a Lord Commander leading them. Bran and the others probably expected him to take the position again, and further his own punishment by ensuring that he would not leave the post until his death.

It was getting easier not to care so much what they thought, especially this far North. If Sansa tried to visit him, he thinks it would only be to sooth her own guilt, and if he wasn’t here when she did, he doubts she would lose sleep over his absence. Arya made it clear she wasn’t returning north, and Bran was chained to the south. They’re carrying on without him, and he no longer feel guilty doing the same.

Besides, if he did stay, he knows he _would_ inevitably fall into the role of Lord Commander, the need to better things too ingrained in him to let him do anything else. But he’s finally free from all his titles, no longer responsible for other lives or forced to choose his duties over what he wants.

He wants to go north with the Free Folk and leave behind every reminder of the past. He would not forget, but he didn’t want to be surrounded by ghosts and the echoes of the choices he made.

Three days later, he rides beside Tormund as they cross the wall, _the real North_ , as Tormund keeps calling it.

He didn’t know what he expected to feel when they left the Seven Kingdoms, but as he looks back to see the gate close behind them, he manages to feel a semblance of contentment. Still, the emotion doesn’t fill him, doesn’t do anything but tell him between staying at Castle Black and leaving, this was the right choice. He’s unfulfilled, lost and floating even with his path clear in front of him.

He rides forward anyway and doesn’t look back, hoping that somewhere in front of him lied his answer to peace.

\---------------

Drogon didn’t land in Braavos as she expected, as she was hoping.

Even when she commanded him to land, he carried on, and eventually she accepted that she had no say in the matter.

For a fleeting moment she believed he was going to abandon her in the Dothraki Sea again, and leave her to fend for herself, but a few more hours pass, and he doesn’t go any further east. Instead, he goes south.

They fly over Pentos, then Myr. Only then does she know that he’s taking her to Volantis. The weather grows hot and humid, and she has to carefully shed the coat Tormund gave her.

When they land, she doesn’t know the time, only that the day ended hours ago and the streets she can see are almost entirely empty. Daenerys can only discern that they’ve landed on a large, very tall building, and mercifully, Drogon was quiet enough in his landing not to attract attention.

She climbs off him the moment she can, her legs sore and stiff, her fingers cramped from her tight grip on him. He doesn’t take off right away like she expects and waits patiently as she steadies herself and walks around. Large braziers are lit all around her, and walking to the edge of the building, she can she even more on the balconies below.

_The Temple of the Lord of Light._

She turns to Drogon, smiling at her son for bringing her to a place she knows she’d be safe.

Up in the clouds she had grown anxious at just how alone she was. She would have to start all over. She had no coin, no way of acquiring a home for herself without some guidance. Not once did it leave her mind that she was a woman traveling without companions. Except for the dagger that she didn’t know how to properly wield, she had no way of protecting herself without having Drogon trail behind her and expose her as Daenerys Targaryen. She vaguely remembers her time on the streets with Viserys, but children were more a nuisance while women were prey, and even then, at least she had her brother to keep her company.

Here though, with the Priests and Priestesses who had spread the word of her amongst their followers, she had a better chance of receiving help from people who she didn’t fear would harm her.

Sure enough, just after a few minutes, Drogon began to shift from his guarded stance and she knows she’s no longer alone.

A pretty woman with dark hair appears from the other side of the roof, walking up a hidden staircase Dany did not immediately see.

The woman smiles warmly at her, not at all hesitant to approach her despite the dragon between them.

She reaches for Dany’s hands, squeezing them tight.

“Daenerys Targaryen, we’ve been waiting for you.”

Her voice is kind and pleasant, her hands warm and welcoming. A lump forms in her throat at the affectionate reception, touched that people still cared for her.

“You have?”

“Yes,” she answers resolutely. “You must have many questions, and rest assured I will answer them. But you should rest first and eat something other than dried meat.”

Daenerys doesn’t question how she knows what’s in the satchel strapped across her chest, nor does she flinch as the woman gently takes her hand and lead her to the stairs.

She feels safe here, she has hope here, and she knows Drogon took her here for a reason. In Westeros she was made to question her impulses at every turn, told they were wrong, but she wouldn’t listen to those voices anymore. She would listen only to her own and her instincts told her she was in the right place.

“What’s your name?” She asks softly, following the woman down the steps into a darkened hallway.

“Kinvara,” she replies. “I had offered my services to you in Meereen, however your advisors told me you were indisposed. I was willing to wait until you returned with your Khalasar, but they made it clear I wasn’t welcome.”

“They?”

“The bald man. Varys.”

He never told her, never mentioned a Priestess. She should have never trusted him.

“It’s alright,” Kinvara says at the sight of her annoyance. “You’re here now, and I’ll offer whatever council you wish.”

She leads her through the halls, empty except for the torches on the wall every twenty feet. The heat in the air is familiar and welcome, so different than it had been in Westeros. Even on Dragonstone, the chill was not something she’d grown used to.

After a few turns, Kinvara opens a large door at the end of a corridor, leading her into a spacious solar.

“These will be your rooms for as long as you’re here,” she explains. “A bath has been drawn for you just in there,” she gestures towards a door on the right. “Would you like a handmaid to come and assist you?”

“No,” she answers. “I’d like to be alone for now, if that’s alright.”

“Of course, it is. I’ll have food brought up to you in an hour?”

Daenerys nods, feeling the exhaustion seeping into her bones. All she wants is to sleep, to disappear from the world and think of nothing for a few hours at least.

Kinvara smiles at her. “Rest, Daenerys. Tomorrow we will speak.”

\---------------

When she finally lays down on the plush mattress, she’s too weary to think of anything but sleep.

Loneliness poked at the edges of her mind as she bathed and ate, but she refused to acknowledge it. She’s alone now, but there was no point in wallowing when it was a circumstance that would not change for a long while, if ever.

It was almost pleasant not to have worries flood her mind, to think of herself and what is best for her. Selfish, but pleasant.

But, thinking of herself, of pleasant things, she feels herself missing him. It doesn’t hurt, and the regret that saturated the memories doesn’t feel so sharp. Despite all his flaws, he loved her in a way that didn’t frighten or annoy her, even if it was a short-lived love. Sleeping beside him brought her a peace that felt like home, a peace she can almost feel now as she lays alone. She can’t help but remember his touch, the way he pulled her close afterwards and held her as they both succumbed to sleep.

She would find time later to explore the anger and frustrations that she knows still stir in her heart for him, but for now she allows the memories to comfort her and lull her to sleep.

When she wakes the sun is high in the sky, peaking through the thin curtains of the room. She feels the heat of the rays splayed across her legs and arms. She lets herself enjoy it knowing she has no battles to plan or choices to make.

Movement in the solar catches her attention and she sits up quickly, pulling on a robe and leaving the bedchamber. She’s surprised to find Kinvara laying out her breakfast at the small table.

“Aren’t you the High Priestess?”

The mysterious woman smiles patiently at her. “Yes, however I expected you’d prefer not to be seen by many. Luckily, your dragon flew away into the night. My little spies tell me he wasn’t noticed by anyone in the city.”

She sits, taking the plate of fruits and breads that Kinvara offers her. She’s a bit disappointed Drogon left her here, but at the absence of dread in her gut, she accepts that he’ll come back when she’s ready. She wouldn’t spend the rest of her days here, but she would take the kindnesses they offered her until she moved on.

“Why are you helping me?” she asks as she eats.

Kinvara had taken the seat next to her own, not eating herself but keeping Daenerys company.

“You are the Princess That Was Promised,” she answers as if it’s obvious.

She laughs bitterly at the title. “I must be a disappointment to you all.”

“And why is that?”

“I’ve lost everything, I’m the queen of nothing.”

“That does not change what you have done or the countless lives you saved in your heroism. Without you, the disease in Westeros would have spread across the sea and doomed us all in time.”

“Still, the honor feels cruel when I am no longer a princess…no longer a queen.”

“Not _yet_ ,” she answers, unbothered by the truths Daenerys offered. “You are young Daenerys Stormborn, do not feel as if your life is at its end.”

She shakes her head in pity at the woman, clearly entrenched and blinded by her faith, not realizing that she believed in a dead prophecy. “It doesn’t matter anyway; I’m done with all of it. I’ve lost.”

“If that is what you choose then so be it.”

“You’re going to help me?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“How ever you wish,” she says plainly. “You say you are not a queen, what will you be instead?”

“I’ll learn to be more than just a queen, I suppose.”

“Then that is what I will help you with.”

\---------------

To her relief, she adapts well to her new life.

Every morning, she would go down to the kitchens and learn to make her own food. Occasionally, she would don a scarf to hide her hair and walk with Kinvara in the streets, listening intently to the woman as she explained how to life was lived beneath the large castles. She watched as the priestess bargained with street vendors and explained to her what was worth the cost and what wasn’t. She listened and looked intently at her surroundings, well aware that she did not have soldiers to do it for her anymore. Given her childhood, it wasn’t a complete shock to her senses to see what she had missed in all her years as a monarch. 

Dany found that she did not have to change much about herself. It was in her nature to fall into a place of command and leadership, even if she had no one following her. But it still cleared streets for her, made people think twice about approaching her or scamming her as she bought fruits and fabrics and things to call her own. She held her own so long as she did not doubt her capabilities.

It was, however, a difficult thing to come across the many men and women, even children, with tattoos branded on their cheeks. She saw countless vacant faces and very few smiles, and it went against everything she stood for to walk by them without a second thought, acting as if she didn’t think of them as people.

She couldn’t do that anymore; she couldn’t help people free themselves and show them a better life like she wanted to. Kinvara hints that she could, smiles like she has her own little secret whenever Daenerys dismisses the fantasies. But she does have moments of pride as Kinvara explains the decline of the slave trade and the meager profits in the slave markets as the demand for them lessens without the Bay of Dragons to trade with. _Your liberation of Slaver’s Bay is still being felt, Daenerys Stormborn. In time the markets will collapse, and the former slaves will sing your praises._ The woman’s kind words are meant to tempt her, push her towards greatness once again, but Dany only allows it sooth the scars of her past and make her feel like she _did_ change the world for some. 

When she isn’t with the priestess, she’s with one of her disciples training with her weapon. They offer her a short sword, a spear, even an arakh, but she’s most comfortable with the dagger. It isn’t particularly strenuous training, just small moves and actions she could take to get herself out of a dangerous situation should she find herself in one. They grab her from behind and she unsheathes it before they can completely incapacitate her, they hold a knife to her throat, and she counters with a swift stab to their belly. She hopes to avoid ever using it on another person, but she enjoys the sport of it, nonetheless.

Kinvara tells her that it would be unwise and tedious to learn a trade. She would be seen, and people would grow curious about the woman who remains hidden behind head scarfs. Daenerys can’t help but agree that it would be risky, but she she’s wary of depending on the priestess for too long, knowing that if she took and took, Kinvara would eventually expect something in return.

Despite her warnings, Daenerys doesn’t want to be completely ignorant of the skills many learn at a young age. She tries sewing in her chambers, but she isn’t very good, and she doesn’t have the patience to perfect it. She attempts baking, but after her seventh burnt bread she realizes she doesn’t have the passion. She finds herself attracted to libraries in the temple, filled with books on every topic imaginable. She loses herself in the books on law, the books on history. In her head, she finds solutions for the disasters and conflicts that befall the places she reads about and a few hundred pages later she sees that they’re utilized. It’s a fun game for herself, trying to outsmart history and feel like she’s making changes even though the ink on the pages is long since dried and worn.

She accepts that she can’t escape her sense of duty, so she doesn’t try too, and begins search for a direction that would make her feel useful and fulfilled.

However, of all the instances of poverty that pulls her in their direction, she gravitates towards the children. Many are homeless, abandoned, and she knows from experience that it’s common in more than just Volantis. She would help the children in any way she could, she decides. Perhaps she would school them, open her home to them, make sure they eat and have clothes to keep them warm. All big dreams, but Westeros did not take away her heart or her determination.

At nights, when she isn’t distracted by her activities, she falls hard from her uplifted mood.

She hates all of them without shame, knowing the heat of the emotion would eventually die out as long as she let it burn freely.

She hates Sansa, Arya, and all of the north for hating her. She wonders if there was anything more she could have done to earn their respect, if she should have tried harder to befriend Sansa, if she should have just granted the north it’s independence.

She hates Tyrion and Varys, her trusted advisors who chose her and believed in her until she needed it the most. They let her grief alone. They never thought of her as a person, only a pillar that they could carve their own ambitions into, shocked and angered when she began to crumble after they continuously chipped away at her. 

She hates Jon for all of that and more. It’s not his fault that he shares her blood, but she hates that he didn’t listen to her when she told him just how dangerous it was. He should have trusted her to know, he should have believed in her enough to support her decisions. He should have done a lot of things, but those were his own demons to sort through.

And now he has her kingdoms and the very throne she’d lost so much for. Daenerys tries not to feel jaded because of it, remembering that in the last moments he _did_ think of her, he did choose to think of her before anything else and that’s why she’s here now, a new world of potential at her feet. It might have just been his guilt and honor that helped him along, but she appreciated it.

She cries too, finally able to feel all the grief she had to stifle in the middle of two wars. She cries for Missandei and Jorah, apologizing over and over for failing them, for not protecting them like she should have as their queen. She cries for Grey Worm too, because it was her fault Missandei was gone and he’d lost the person he loved the most. She hopes that he could one day forgive her for taking the joy from his life. She mourns her children. The familiar pain of a mother’s grief she’d had with her since Rhaego coming back to haunt her as she remembers the screeches of pain that left them as they were taken from the sky. No one was every supposed to die for her, because of her. Had she known what awaited everyone and everything she loved; she would have never left Essos.

She has nightmares now, almost every night. The nameless, faceless common folk made themselves heard when she closed her eyes, reminding her that her new freedom was paid for at the expense of their lives, reminding her that they would be chains of guilt she would have to pull around for as long as she lived.

Jon says it wasn’t her fault, Kinvara even assures her the blame is not for her to take, but it’s an easy thing to say when they were not involved themselves. The plan was Cersei’s, but if Cersei was alive, she would not mourn their deaths. They deserved that at least, and she would hold onto it because she had no choice. The pain of grief seemed to be permanently attached to her life, and it was something she couldn’t shake even after she left all the people who caused it.

\---------------

Weeks after she arrived, the rumors bleed into Essos, the details coming in slowly, but all of them offering the same tragic beginning; Daenerys Targaryen is dead. Betrayed and murdered by her ally, Jon Snow.

She flinches when she first hears it, knowing that the harsh words aren’t true. They paint him as dishonorable and evil.

Then she hears the rest. _Taken prisoner. Brought to justice. Sentenced to the Night’s Watch. King Brandon Stark._

It’s alarming, confusing, and she wants nothing more than to have her son take her back so she can see it for herself.

It wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. 

She concludes quickly that it had to be Jon’s doing somehow. Grey Worm would not go against her word without good reason and Jon must have said something to him.

She’s angry at him for going back on his word. It isn’t a Targaryen on the throne like she thought, there wasn’t anyone to carry on their name and keep their crown like she hoped. _It’s a Stark._

Kinvara tells her she could go back and easily take her crown from the king while they’re still healing from the wars of Westeros. That’s how she knows it’s time for her to leave Volantis. There are too many who praise her, too many who elevate her beyond what she thinks she deserves. Here, people mourn for her. She sees a look of defeat on many faces when they learn she’s gone, no longer a source of hope and more than once she wants to emerge from the shadows and tell them that she hasn’t left them. The need to take back what she’d lost is too tempting, and if she stayed surrounded by people who reminded her in hundreds of ways why she should, she would one day try again.

She would go to Braavos like she originally planned, back to the place she had found her first home. She would find herself an unassuming home on the outskirts of the city and find peace in anonymity.

When she leaves, Kinvara hands her a purse of coins, telling her that when she finds her house, she’ll know it. _It’s the last thing we will give you until you’re ready for more,_ she said at Dany’s protest. Her words are always cryptic, always alluding to more as if she’s part of something bigger than a completed prophecy. Anticipation always stirs in her gut when she lingers on the words too long. She’s happy to get away from it, longing for silence and the absence of expectations.

Drogon comes to her well into the night, as most of the city sleeps.

“Where have you been?” she asks her son in greeting, smiling at the gentle way he leans into her touch.

She climbs up, not at all anxious this time.

Everything she’d felt had reached its peak and now she would see her way through the aftermath. She has no doubts that she’s able to do it.

“Let’s go home.” She says softly to Drogon.

\---------------

He wakes at dawn after another fitful night of sleep, pulling himself from the furs on the floor of his tent and bracing himself for the early morning chill. Having grown up in the North, he’s used to the cold, used to the biting touch of the winds, and for most of his life it was comfortable, a reminder of his home. Now, it just hurts, makes him feel numb and lost.

They’re headed towards Hardhome. Jon doesn’t know why anyone wants to return there, but he suspects they’re just looking for familiarity as well, something known to grab onto in the new world.

People break off, deciding to return to some cave or clearing that they lived at before the White Walkers drive them away, but the majority of the Free Folk want to stick together, the sense of family strong among the few where there were once many.

Jon doesn’t feel that warmth, though, and contemplates going off on his own as well. He doesn’t think a life among the Free Folk offers him anything. They wild and happy where he’s somber and trapped in his own head. His disappointment in himself is immeasurable, sitting stagnant in his chest without any signs of vacating.

Ghost is his only comfort, always there just as Jon begins to spiral, always nudging him and looking at him like there’s something he’s missing.

Today is uneventful and quiet, the sun is bright in the sky and when they occasionally leave the shade of trees, he almost feels the warmth of it. 

Tormund talks his ear off, and Jon responds when he needs to. He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s spoken freely; the rest is all obligatory responses and grunts of acknowledgment.

When night falls, fires are leisurely built, the boisterous laughter and happy faces reminding him that everything is right in the world even if it doesn’t have the same effect on him.

He limits his drink, the temptation to lose himself in his cups too dangerous to indulge even once. The rest get drunk around him, ignoring his sour mood and toasting to anything and everything as the nights carry on, celebrating the freedom to live without fear. He likes to watch them; he doesn’t fault them at all for feeling what he can’t. He’s proud in the part he had to play in giving them that. 

To his surprise, Tormund doesn’t pester him, doesn’t push horns of ale into his hands and demand him to smile. Instead, the man throws him looks of sympathy, shaking his head out of pity and then threatens to chase him down and skin him alive if he tries to leave on his own in the middle of the night. Jon usually smiles weakly at him and nods, and then retires for the night, hoping and dreading that he would dream of her again.

It hasn’t happened since he left the Red Keep. His thoughts inevitably turn to her as he’s falling asleep, and she’s the first image that comes to his mind when he wakes, but in between is dark and insufferably empty.

After gulping down the rest of his drink and receiving his nightly warning from Tormund, he bids goodnight to the people closest to him and rises from his place in front of the fire.

“Snow!” Tormund’s voice stops him before he makes it too far.

He turns around and waits for him to say whatever he has to say. It’s easier than arguing that he wants to be left alone.

Tormund walks to him with determination, grabbing his arm and pulling Jon into his tent.

Inside, Ghost, already settled and sleeping, growls in irritation as Tormund sits on the small bed of pelts.

“I’d like to sleep, Tormund,” he says plainly, finding the vacancy in his own voice somewhat jarring. He sits too, well aware that Tormund wouldn’t leave until he says his piece.

“You can sleep after we talk,” he replies. He surprisingly serious, and not very drunk.

“Talk about what?”

“You,” he says, gesturing towards Jon with a wave of his hand. “You’re _free_ , Snow. You’re one of us now. You should start acting like it.”

“You want me to pretend I’m happy?”

“Aren’t you? You’re just like us, you don’t like southern rules and all that business with kings and queens. You wanted to escape it, too”

He looks at Tormund, deciding to offer him a bit of truth. “Some things I didn’t want to escape.”

“Like what?” he asks, his interest peaked.

Jon can tell he knows the answer already. He doesn’t bother lying. “Her.”

Tormund stays silent, watching him closely, waiting for more.

“None of this was supposed to happen,” he says after a moment. “She’s supposed to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I swore to her she would be. I bent the knee because I wanted her to be.”

“What would have happened if she did become queen?” he pushes. “She’d be all the way in the south anyway, and you’d still find your way up here with us.”

The question itself throws him. Where would his place be if she had her crown? He doesn’t think he would have stopped denying that he loved her immediately, not without the desperation he felt in the Throne Room pushing him to the realization. He would have run, he thinks shamefully. He would have left for Winterfell and tried to forget. But he’s doing the same now and it’s proving to be impossible.

His answer comes to him easily. “I would have gone back south. I would have pledged myself to her in any way she’d have me.” 

Standing at her Painted Table at Dragonstone, listening and offering advice, or planning with her at Winterfell, was not a hardship. The duties on his shoulders didn’t feel so suffocating or lonely. There was an excitement to it, an underlying buzz of pleasure in sharing responsibility with someone he admired. He thinks she might have felt the same.

Forfeiting this freedom wouldn’t have been difficult in the end, not if the other path led to her.

“You would have gone south just for her?”

“Aye.”

“Then why are you here, Snow?” Tormund asks in disbelief.

“She’s _gone_ ,” he bites back.

“And you just give up?” At Jon’s look of confusion, Tormund shakes his head. “I told you I knew the truth. She may not be in the south, but she’s somewhere, isn’t she?” Tormund laughs at his poor attempt to feign confusion. “Don’t lie to me, Snow. I saw her. She flew right up here on that dragon of hers.”

 _What?_ “She came north?” His voice is a whisper of disbelief.

Tormund nods in confirmation, and his heart beats a little faster.

“Coming here was dangerous,” he mumbles. “Anyone could have seen her.”

“It was, but she was in no condition to fly any farther,” Tormund replies, an air of sadness in his own voice. “And don’t you worry, no one saw her but me. And Ghost. Led me to her, actually.”

He looks at the direwolf, his ears perked at the sound of his name.

“How did she look?” He almost afraid to hear the answer, but now that someone else knows, he’s desperate to talk about her.

“She’s tough,” Tormund said with a shrug. “She looked a little tired, a little hungry. It was her eyes, Jon, that concerned me. Never seen eyes like that. Made me want to go south and fix everything for her.”

He can picture with perfect clarity. He’d seen it so many times himself, she’d shown that vulnerability to him, but he only dismissed it. “Where did you see her? It had to have been south of the Wall.”

“Aye, it was a pretty spot. There were cliffs and water there. She was well-hidden.”

 _Cliffs and water._ He knows exactly where she went. He smiles, just a little, despite the guilt settling into his belly. “I told her to go east. Straight east.”

“She did. And I made sure she was properly warm and fed before she left. She said no one could know that I saw her, so I didn’t speak a word of it to anyone. After all she’d done for our people, I owed her that much.”

He can hardly think of the proper words to express his gratitude, but he manages to breathe out a small _thank you_.

They sit in silence, Jon thinking that Tormund leave him to his thoughts now, but the man is silent and contemplative.

“So,” he starts, after a minute or two. “The way I understand it is that the pair of you deceived all of them. Seems a silly thing to do if she won.”

“It’s not that simple,” he replies. “She didn’t just lose her dragon and her friends. Her advisors betrayed her. After it happened, she had no one to defend her from the blame. She knew her life was in danger.”

“And where were you?”

Jon considers explaining the complexities of his uncovered claim, of the distance he purposefully put between them, but reliving that shame would be too much right now. “I was too late,” he offers, regret heavy in his tone. “But I did what I thought was right. I just wanted her to be safe.”

He nods, breathing in through his nose as he connects the remaining threads, making sense of the plan that was now known by more people that he was comfortable with.

“Why are you here, then? You’d go south for her, surely you’d go east too.”

 _Gods, if only it were that easy._ “She doesn’t want me following her.”

“She tell you that?”

“No, but why would she want me anywhere near her? If it weren’t for me, she’d…I made a lot of mistakes.”

Understanding colors his face, as well as frustration. “That’s what this is then? You’re not here to be free, you’re here to punish yourself.”

“It’s a punishment for the crime of murdering a queen,” he says bluntly.

“It’s horseshit,” he counters. “You’re miserable and I don’t see you trying to change that.”

He sighs. “It hasn’t been very long.”

“You’re not going to change. You’re not going to try.” Tormund states.

He’s right. “You don’t know tha—”

“I do. I’ve seen you love a woman before. You’re loyal ‘til the end and there is no real end here.”

“I betrayed her, too.” He remind him.

“Aye, and it’s too late to ask for her forgiveness, but your Dragon Queen is still alive.”

“I don’t deserve her forgiveness.”

“Maybe not, but unless you do something, you’re going to be spending the rest of your years feeling sorry for yourself. How else are you going to get that pitiful frown off your face?”

“I just want to know she’s happy. Wherever she is,” he answers honestly. His dream of her floods his mind. Her child. Her bright, elated smile. “With whoever she’s with.”

“Well, it’s been nearly three moons since I saw her, and it’ll be a few more before you can find a ship. I reckon she’d have found herself some happiness by then.”

He smiles sadly at his friend, touched that he seems to care so much. “I was going to do that, you know. Not so soon, though. Years from now, when there isn’t so much of a risk.”

He grins, shaking his head. “If anything deserves a risk, it’s love, Jon”

\---------------

“Miss, miss!” The voice comes from behind her, excited and high pitched.

She stops her task of putting the books back in their place and turns around, looking down to see little Serina staring up at her, a big toothless smile on her face.

Dany smiles back, not immune to the simple joy on the girl’s face. “Yes, sweetling?”

Serina is five, her brother only two years older than her. Both children started coming just this morning, making the number of her students climb up to thirteen.

“I made a friend, miss!” she exclaims, turning to point at Doraya. “That girl. She shared her doll with me.”

“I’m happy to hear it, love,” she replies softly, relieved that the girl was no longer latched onto her older brother. “And you’ll make even more tomorrow. Soon enough you’ll have more friends than you can count?”

Her excitement grows. “How many?”

Daenerys pretends to ponder on it for a moment before answers. “Hmm, I’d venture to say at least twenty.

Her eyes grow wide. “That _so_ many!”

Daenerys laughs. “One can never have too many friends.”

“How many do you have, miss?”

“I have _hundred_ s,” she whispers with a secret smile. “Why don’t you go back to playing, love? I have a few more chores to do.”

She runs back to her friend, leaving Daenerys to finish her task. It’s only a small selection of books so far, not enough to fill a single shelf, but books with pictures are not so common, and Daenerys doesn’t want to ruin their pure imaginations with books of violent history just yet.

When she’s done, she looks around her small schoolhouse, the sight warming her heart. It’s not particularly grand, just a peculiar little cabin attached to her home. A worn rug covers the stone floors, and circular table short enough for young children sitting on top of it. On one wall there are a few chests with the used toys she purchased, and on the other is her measly collection of books. Across the door, on the back wall is where she writes her lessons, finding the chalk easy to wash away with water after the day is done.

As the weeks passed, she managed to transform it from its sorry state to a homey, clean space. She hopes one day, she can build something bigger, with large windows that let in the light and plenty of space for tables and more bookcases. Simple hopes, so much smaller than the ones she once held, but they get her by and keep her from feeling useless.

Laughter pulls her from her thoughts, the remaining children yelling enthusiastically over each other, completely immersed in their interactions.

She should probably scold them, tell them to quiet down, but she can’t find it in her heart to do so. They’re only children, after all. Their lives would most likely be difficult and tiresome, but she would let them be children for as long as they could be.

From a distance, she hears the iron gates creak open. Another parent coming to fetch their child.

Serina, closer to the door, turns to the noise right away.

“Papa!”

She runs out the door to greet him. From this distance Daenerys can hear her telling him about her day.

Irrio, her brother, follows her out, his excitement much more tempered.

She smiles at Doraya, a silent _thanks_ for helping her with Serina, as she follows the younger children, wishing to greet their father and tell him of their progress.

She didn’t teach them much, just their numbers and letters and transforming the stories they’ve heard growing up into their historical counterparts, but unless their families were wealthy and privileged, some children did not ever get the chance to learn to read or write.

The children in her quaint school were children of working parents, men and women who worked themselves to the bone every day, having no choice but to leave their children unattended and left to their own devices until they were old enough to be put to work. The Free Cities may be advanced in the arts and academics, but that achievement was counterbalanced by the poverty, the forgotten people living closest to the ground, hidden by the tall, elaborate buildings and ostentatious places of pride. 

She thinks it’s why she’s had a tough time persuading some to let their children learn from her, as they were more concerned with the realities of their station rather than the possibilities their children could have. She doesn’t think badly of them for it, some people only wished to survive in the world until their death, focused on keeping what they have rather than wishing for more.

But still, she has the heart of a dreamer, and the parents and children who approached her did too.

She talks to the man for a few minutes, the pride in his eyes sweet and beautiful as she told him of Irrio’s progress with writing and Serina’s new friend.

They left shortly after, and three more children are retrieved soon after. She speaks with each of their parents, being sure to praise the progress the children have made. 

When they leave, she goes back inside to her last child, Doraya. She’s the only orphan in her group, and at eight years old, she’s also the oldest.

“I made a batch of rolls yesterday evening,” she says. “And a sweet butter to spread on them. Would you like one?”

“You didn’t burn them this time?” The little girl teases, getting up to follow her to into her home.

The sight of the white stone walls makes her feel at peace, and the red door nearly always makes her heart flutter. It was dull and chipping terribly, but she’s in no hurry to repaint it, afraid to lose the excitement she’d felt when she first saw it, and every time since.

_Home._

She knows it’s not the home she remembers. She tried for weeks to find it but her memories were hazy at best, and she didn’t want to linger when she had something better.

It’s closed in her grasp, but somehow, she knows she isn’t quite there yet. There are missing pieces, and she doesn’t know what they are yet, but she tries every day to find them.

She and Doraya walk to her kitchen, the smell of flour still permeating the air after her latest attempt at baking.

The rolls sit in a wooden bowl on her table, a cloth covering them, keeping them fresh. Doraya goes to sit while Dany gets them plates, the sweet butter, and a dinner knife to spread it.

“How are the other children,” Dany asks after she’s served them both. “Is there still enough food?”

Daenerys had found the orphanage near her shortly after she arrived, quickly making an effort to be friendly with the women running it. The elderly woman and her two daughters took in children of all ages, though they could only do so much, and toddlers and babies often took priority. Daenerys had a partnership of sorts with them. She gave them resources they were short on, though most of the time it’s food for the children, and they helped her learn how to navigate the populace city, teaching her tricks and giving her secrets only a lifelong resident of the Free City would know.

The amount the red priestess had given her was much larger than she originally thought, but Daenerys was learning how to be very frugal with her coin. She had a sneaking suspicion that they were still helping her, though. The last owner of her home accepted her measly offer straight away, and that was after he’d found her wandering around the docks, admiring the merchant ships and watching how people bartered for their fresh fish. It was like he’d been expecting her. Not that she minded, as soon as she saw the modest house with the stone walls surrounding it, she’d been entranced, stunned into silence at how perfect it was for her. Not only had acquiring a place to live been easier than she expected, but she had accumulated a small following of well-wishers, people who simply wanted to stop by every few days and make idle conversation with her. She didn’t mind that either, because the only true friends she’d made so far were children.

“There is still food, miss,” Doraya answers after swallowing her bite. “They’ll make the flour last until the next moon, and the meat you give us is enough. Moriah says they don’t want us getting to spoiled.”

She smiles sadly at her. As much as she hoped they’d eat well for the rest of their lives she knows most of the children will eventually be forced to the leave when they’re old enough to find work on their own, and while she planned on helping them be placed in apprenticeships, some would inevitably slip through their fingers and land on the streets.

It’s why she’d taken an interest in Doraya. The girl was approaching her ninth name day, and her time at the orphanage was growing short. There were few ways for girls to earn coin on their own, and Daenerys shuddered to think of the brothel keepers and the men that would see her as prey.

Doraya comes early in the day, and Daenerys teaches her for an hour on her own before the younger children arrived and take most of her attention. She’s a smart girl, already learning to read and write full sentences, and she had a knack for mathematics. Daenerys had been talking to shop owners, looking for friendly people who would be willing to take in a clever girl who could manage their books and write their letters. She stays after the others leave too, because Daenerys insists on walking her back to the orphanage. The sun was always fading by the time the last of the children were retrieved and Dany didn’t want the young girl walking alone in the dark.

After they eat their treat, she walks Doraya to the orphanage. Moriah greets them at the door, smiling kindly to the little girl as she walks into the building.

“Did she do good today, miss?” she asks with a stern kindness, wanting to be sure the girl minded her manners. They were lovely women, charitable and honest, unlike so many other homes for parentless children.

“Of course. Doraya is a lovely girl.” She replies. “She’s an immense help in keeping the younger ones focused.”

“That she is, my dear,” she says with pride. “I’ll be sad to see her go.”

“And she has to?” Dany entreats gently.

Regret pools in her eyes. “She does. We can’t keep them all, as much as I wish to, and we have enough mouths to feed as it is. The more they grow, the more they eat.”

Daenerys nods. “Keep her until I find a new place for her, at least. I’ll even give you a little more to feed her. She’s only a girl. She can’t be on the streets on her own.”

“Miss,” she says gently. They all call her that, her anonymity being easy to maintain thus far. She doesn’t spend long wondering why that’s the case. “It seems rather harsh, but these are not _your_ children. And once you have babies of your own, they’ll be the ones you can spoil with love. You’re doing what you can, same as us. Don’t feel obligated to do more.”

She only hears the words as a challenge. “Why shouldn’t I feel obligated if I know I can?”

Moriah shakes her head, a playful smile on her lips. “Very well, then, dear. I won’t discourage you. But take time for yourself. You’re a pretty thing and you’ve been here nearly half a year already. Surely you’ve caught the attention of some handsome sailor?”

She has. Plenty of sailors actually, and while their attentions do flatter her at times, she doesn’t desire anything more yet.

“I have, but sadly none have been lucky enough to catch mine.” She replies slyly.

Moriah laughs. “That’s a wise way to do it, dear. Find yourself a good man, not just a pretty face that makes you blush.”

Her smile strains. He was never far from her thoughts, especially when the image of him is summoned so specifically. “Perhaps I will when the time is right, Moriah. But I’m perfectly happy on my own at the moment.”

It’s so easy to say she knows it’s true. Pride courses through her, making her buzz with renewed excitement. She’s happy, and she doesn’t linger on the _buts_ that threaten to follow. She’s happy.

Dany shelves her satisfaction as she walks home, her eyes and ears alert, her hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger at her hip. She has a smaller knife, too, strapped to her leg, just to feel a little safer.

The streets surrounding her home are clean, peaceful, and free of anything more that the occasional theft. She’s inclined to say that’s why the priestess chose it. Still, she wouldn’t let her guard down when this could be night some man will ill-intentions ventured down her street.

When she makes it home, the iron gate creaks as she closes it behind her, the loud groan piercing the quiet air.

It’s very quiet behind the tall walls, though now, after months of settling in, it’s more peaceful than lonely.

She walks up her cobblestone walkway, inspecting the progress of her gardens. She’s trying to grow her own vegetables. The onion stalks only just started to peak through the dirt a few days prior, the light green color making her giddier than she thought possible.

She turns her eye to her newly obtained planters. Beautiful, ornate purchases that she made on a whim. In them, the dirt is fresh and dark. She planted the seeds only days ago, but the gardener she spoke to told her that so long as she pampered them, her lemon trees would sprout up in the blink of an eye.

She goes inside, feeling drained but content.

She walks to one of the rooms she’s made her bedroom. It’s so unlike her grandiose and luxurious bedchambers. Even her guestroom in Winterfell was more impressive than her modest furniture here.

Her feather bed, another indulgent purchase she couldn’t resist, sat on a simple platform frame, her blankets thin but soft as clouds. She has a small cabinet beside it, books stacked high. She didn’t have enough clothes to justify a wardrobe just yet, so her dresses, trousers, smallclothes, and tunics were folded neatly inside a chest under her window.

Dany sits at her vanity, smirking as she remembered how she bargained the price to nearly half, not ashamed that she used intimidation and flirtation to soften the seller.

She pulls down the hood of her cloak and undoes the tight braid she’s put her hair in that morning.

Her silver locks were impossible to hide completely, but she didn’t like to call attention to her Targaryen features. Whenever a comment _was_ made, she made up flimsy tale about Valyrian blood on her mother’s side and it was easily accepted.

She’s considered cutting it, dying to a less conspicuous color, but she’s hesitant to follow through. It isn’t vanity that stops her, but the idea of washing away everything about herself scared her. She’s already shed her titles and concealed her name, but if she changes her appearance it’ll feel like Daenerys Targaryen was as good as dead to the world. She isn’t ready for that just yet, and she doesn’t think she ever would be.

When her hair is brushed and smoothed out, she twists it in a looser braid to keep it from tangling as she sleeps. She changes into her nightgown and walks to her kitchen, the stone floors cool on her feet.

She treats herself to another roll in lieu of trying to cook a supper and goes back to her room, settling into her bed and lighting the candle on the cabinet. She grabs the book she began reading the night before, a sweet and simple love story. She’d taken a liking to the simplicity of fictional tales, finding them much happier and fulfilling than her own story played out.

When she reads the right before she goes to sleep, they sometimes bleed into her dreams, and she finds herself living out the tales, her male suitor mercifully hidden in the shadows, but still there with her. She knows who it’s meant to be, his wild raven curls are impossible to hide, but she pretends to be ignorant of the fact and enjoys the dream that isn’t plagued by the numerous deaths and tragedies that befell her.

Her dreams and nightmares had become sporadic as of late, only coming to her a few times a week. The mornings after the nightmares are always difficult. The wounds of Westeros feel fresh, and it takes an extra hour to stitch herself back up, mumbling apologies and wiping away a tear or two.

This night, though, her sleep is deep and dreamless.

\--------------

Daenerys feels it again, that uncomfortable sense of being watched, that anticipation bubbling low in her belly, waiting with bated breath for something to happen. It’s the third time in two days.

She looks around the market, intent on finding the source of her annoyance and scaring it off, but once again she comes up empty. Everyone around her is familiar in some way, and not a single one of them is paying her any mind.

She purchases her apples quickly, and then completes the rest of her shopping.

She leaves the market street, but instead of taking the path home, she goes the opposite way, deciding that a long walk offered more opportunities to catch the nuisance and demand and explanation.

She strolls slowly down the street of textiles, trying to look distracted by the items laid out on the tables, smiling kindly to the vendors and shopkeepers trying to lure her to their stand.

She feels it again and she stops, pretending to inspect the details of a gown hanging from a rafter. Without warning, she turns quickly, and huffs in frustration when nothing comes of it.

 _Nothing but a voyeur_ , she thinks, anger stewing at her. No one would make her feel unsafe. Not here, not where she found her home.

Suddenly, she catches a brilliant flash of white in her peripheral and she follows its direction without thinking twice. The next street over is a row of inns and taverns. She’s unsure if it’s right, but she walks down the street anyway, glancing into open doors, waiting for something to draw her in.

She finally sees it halfway down the street. With only a quick glance inside an unassuming tavern, she almost misses the white fur almost hidden by the door.

Disappointment fills her. _It was only a dog._ She feels silly for being so eager.

As she walks away, she falters, feeling an insistent pull.

She turns back and stalks into the tavern, quiet and empty this early in the day, but she finds her target straight away and her heart plummets.

There is not another creature in the world she could mistake for the wolf in front her, and she forces her eyes up, unsurprised to see Jon Snow in front of her. The sight him still halts her breathe, though.

He looks just as stunned as she feels, clearly having no intention of being found by her.

 _Not a voyeur, then,_ she concludes, but her anger only grows. 

She doesn’t hide her disappointment, shaking her head at the stupidity of his actions.

Dany would love to leave, pretend he isn’t here, and she didn’t see him and carry on with her happy life, but when their eyes meet, she knows she wouldn’t be able too.

 _Follow me,_ she says with her bitter gaze, turning swiftly on her feet and leaving the tavern. She walks briskly back to through the markets, not bothering to look back and make sure he’s following because she feels it again, now a burning into her back.

She couldn’t speak to him and demand an explanation with so many ears around them. The wrong person could hear, and her life would be uprooted once again. She’d be lucky if his direwolf didn’t uncover his identity. _You stupid man,_ she thinks, throwing him a final look as she unlocks the gate to her haven.

She ushers him into her courtyard, closing the gate and brushing past him without a glance, walking up the stepts into her home. She leaves the door open as she goes into her kitchens, placing her purchases on the table before turning around to face him.

When he isn’t there, she walks out slowly, almost scared that he might have left.

She ignores the relief when she sees that he’s still here, standing just outside her door, looking conflicted on whether or not he should come in. _It doesn’t matter now, you’re already here, you’ve already come to my home without invitation._

Ghost, on the other hand, has laid himself out on the tiles of her solar, cooling off from the heat of the sun. Some of her anger dissipates at the sight of the gentle beast, but when she looks back at Jon, still frozen at the threshold, it comes back in an instant.

She grabs his arm and pulls him in, shutting the door behind them.

With the click of the lock, the air becomes thick with tension, the pounding of her heart loud in her ears. 

“Why did you come here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like both characters needed some "me time" before they met up again, work through things on their own. As I said before, I'm keeping most of the ending the gave us, but my petty ass still didn't want to give Sansa northern independence.😂
> 
> Hopefully I'll have the final chapter up soon. Thank you for reading!❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :) this last part I was working on got too long so I just decided to split it in two.🙈I don't love this first half, it could do with some cleaning up, but it's after midnight and I'm impatient so here we are.

As he stands there struggling for words, she takes him in, from his worn leather boots to the unkempt bun he’s bunched his curls into. He looks so out of place in her home, dressed in his Northern garb, his sword strapped to side like he’s still a man of war. His pale skin is jarring against the warmth of his surroundings, his lovely face colored pink from the heat. Although nervous, he stands with a faint shadow of the confidence she remembers and averts his gaze like he’s too shy to look at her.

The sight endears her as much as it infuriates her.

She leans on the latter, putting her guard up.

“ _Why?_ ” She pushes, taking a small step forward.

Her approach has him shaking his head, his eyes apologetic when he finally looks up at her. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”

His voice is low and gruff, stirring up inconvenient memories.

“That’s not an answer. You _told_ me to leave. You told me to never go back,” she snaps. “Why did you come?”

He shakes his head gently. “I…I’m sorry,” he says, backing up, looking properly chastised. She almost feels guilty. “Truthfully, you weren’t meant to know—”

“Just answer me, Jon,” Her voice is still firm, though she’s softened the sharp edge of it. “Please.”

“I needed to be reassured…I needed to see if you were happy.” His voice steadies with his answer, a sigh of defeat leaving him.

“Well, I am,” she insists forcefully. “I’m finally happy and then you—” she sucks in a breath, calming herself.

Her skin is hot, uncomfortable. She doesn’t like the burning of his gaze on her, she feels exposed and vulnerable, just like she did when she last saw him.

 _You’re ruining it,_ she wants to yell at him. She feels herself unravelling, his very presence uncovering healing wounds so abruptly she’s struggling to keep from bleeding out.

She walks into the adjacent room, taking a seat on the small settee. She leans forward, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against her palm.

Soon after, she hears him trailing behind her, the soft thud of his boots loud in her ears. He stops right beside her, slowly seating himself at the other end.

“You’re supposed to be in Westeros,” she continues steadily, lifting her head to look at him. “You’re supposed to be _king_. But you’re not, are you? You gave that to them, too.”

 _The Starks._ It’s hurts to think of them in her place. The family that casted her aside as if she was nothing to them. And even after everything, he still chose them, chose to give them what _she’d_ fought for.

To her surprise, he doesn’t jump to their defense like she expects. He doesn’t insist that Bran was the best choice, that the Starks were a good family to unite the kingdoms. Instead, he stays quiet, sitting tall under her glare, as if he’s looking forward to her anger.

She keeps going. “It’s all I wanted from you. After everything, all I wanted was for _someone_ who shared my blood to rule the Seven Kingdoms, to assure me that everyone who ever lost their lives for me did not do so in vain.” He doesn’t even flinch at the reminder of their relation. “You betrayed me, Jon. At every turn. Even when I was gone.”

That elicits the regret she’s looking for, the indication that he understands.

“I know, Dany” It’s been nearly a year since she’s heard him call her that. She didn’t know how much she missed it. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

He looks at her with hope, waiting in anticipation for her reply, as if she’d release him from the guilt right away. 

She shakes her head. “What do you want me to say to that? ‘ _I forgive you.’_?” She feels herself falling back into the hurt and resentment. “Did you come all this way just to absolve your guilt?”

She waits, finding herself anticipating his reactions too, wanting something other than passiveness.

“I don’t know.” He answers with honesty.

Dany isn’t at all surprised at his answer. It’s what made them so fragile before, it’s what tore apart everything. He didn’t know what he wanted. Even after all this time he doesn’t know.

“It’s late,” she says. It isn’t, the sun is only just beginning to set, but she’s as ill prepared for this conversation as he is. “You should go.”

He doesn’t argue, dropping his gaze to the floor before nodding.

“Ghost,” he says softly, turning his head slightly. “Let’s go, boy.”

“He can stay,” she says it without thinking, her face burning with embarrassment when he looks up at her in surprise. “He’s a direwolf,” she explains hurriedly. “He’ll call unnecessary attention to you, if he hasn’t already. It would be best if he stayed.”

The truth is, she doesn’t want him to leave the city without her knowing, slipping away just as suddenly as he appeared.

Something flickers across his face, an emotion too quick for her to name, but it makes her uncomfortable. She loses a bit of her steadiness, hating that he may have seen right passed her explanation.

“If you must come back, don’t come back during the day,” she instructs, tearing her eyes from him. She stands up and brushes past him, distracted by his close proximity. She focuses her eyes on the old brass knob of her door, busying her hands with the locks. “I have children who come here, and the last doesn’t leave until just before nightfall. I walk her back to her home. After. You can come back then.”

“Alright.” She can feel the heat of his breath on her neck.

Daenerys jerks the door open, stepping aside as she holds on tightly to the knob, hoping he understands the message.

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

Regrettably, his words soothe her, and she tells herself it’s only because this is the final piece. She needs to hear his words and say her own. In her head, she had screamed at him, but it wasn’t very satisfying. Perhaps she just needed him in front of her to truly move on. Perhaps when he left again, she would feel a little more peace.

The swing of her gate pulls her from her thoughts, and she looks up just in time to see him turning down the street and back to his inn.

She closes her door slowly, sighing as she locks it again.

 _This doesn’t change a thing,_ Dany thinks.

She carries on with her evening, preparing her supper in a daze, not focusing on anything except the surge of bothersome emotions. She eats in silence, hardly tasting the food.

She’s aggravated by his audacity to come here, to find her, to _spy_ on her. _You weren’t supposed to see me._ She’s exasperated at his lack of explanation, he looked completely flustered, just as frustratingly indecisive as she remembered. And a small part of her, a _very_ small part, she argues, it excited by his arrival, but she’s quick to caution herself. Remind herself. Loving him only hurt. She’d laid herself bare before, confessed her vulnerabilities and deepest hopes, and asked him to choose her at least once, and he didn’t. She couldn’t make that mistake again.

Dany had nearly forgotten about the giant wolf now occupying her home, not seeing him again until she went to her bedroom, somewhat startled when he appeared in the doorway after her.

She reached out to him, smiling when he stalked towards her and pushed his head into her hand.

“What are we going to do with him?” she whispers.

The silent creature only looks at her, his gaze still and purposeful. Before long it begins to feel unnerving. She pulls away and crawls into her bed, ready for the day to be over.

Ghost settles onto the floor by her feet, but she doesn’t mind it. She only hates that now she’s distinctly aware of the silence, the lack of voices and laughter in her home, a lack of warmth that’s only brought by another person’s presence.

She buries her head into her pillows, cursing Jon Snow for disturbing her fragile new beginning and herself for letting him. _This doesn’t change a thing,_ she repeats. _I won’t allow it to._

\---------------

As the day drags on, he spends most of the hours pacing in his dingy room at the inn, the thrill of seeing her again slowly mixing with dread. He was only supposed to get a glimpse of her, reassurance that she was alright.

It was dumb luck that a ship had drifted into the Northern seas so far from White Harbor, and when the sailors waved them down and asked with desperation if they had food, Tormund was quick to make a counteroffer. Soon after, Jon found himself on a ship sailing to Essos.

Being the northern most Free City, the ship landed in Braavos. Jon had been here a little over a week, spending the first few days assisting the merchants who’d taken him aboard as a thanks for his bunk. They all looked at him and Ghost with curiosity, but none asked questions. They handed him crates to unload and he did it without question, sweltering under his layers of clothing, but so overwhelmed with all the people and busy streets that he was happy to be told what do while he gathered his bearings. Though he tried to refuse, they gave his a few coins when his work was done. They must have known how helpless he was.

He expected to spend months in Essos, following word of mouth from anyone who may have seen her, gotten a glimpse of her silver hair or otherworldly beauty. He was prepared to walk the continent, a renewed energy coursing through him since he decided to take Tormund’s advice. He did ask around as subtly as he could, trying to make casual conversation with the patrons who frequented the tavern at the inn. Ghost, for the most part, was confined to the room, until three days ago when he bolted out and led Jon straight to her.

By some miracle, she was here. He almost missed her, out of breath from chasing after the unruly direwolf, but after Ghost came to a sudden stop, staring straight ahead, Jon looked for what caught his attention and his heart jumped to his throat.

She was walking out of a shop, stuffing her purchases into a bag slung across her chest. Her hair was tucked away in sand colored scarf, but her face was unmistakable. From where he was, he couldn’t see very much, but she looked so unworried, unburdened. She stood out, as the dress wrapped around her body was more muted than the vibrant colors of the people around her, but he’d never seen her look more beautiful. Jon couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He did worry for her before, spending countless hours falling into despair at just how little she had in her possession when she left, but he should have known better than to underestimate her.

Soon, too soon, he lost sight of her in a crowd and that was that.

He should have gone back to the docks then, gone back to Westeros, yet he was only left wanting more.

The second time, he’d found her on his own. She was walking with a little girl, holding her hand as they meandered down the street. She had a wide smile, talking to the girl. He barely had time to register before he watched them turn a corner and disappear, his own feet frozen to the ground beneath him.

After that, he only felt guilty. He shouldn’t be here watching her without her knowledge. He walked backed to his inn on heavy feet, realizing that far away glimpses was all that was possible. He did what he sought out to do, and now he would return to the north and try to be content with the Free Folk. It was his plan all along.

He should have waited longer. Years, even, and perhaps he would have gotten some version of the pretty picture in his dream. Jon had no reason to believe the dream was anything close to a premonition, but he couldn’t let it go. He would have been appeased with that, seeing her be happy with her child and whatever man she’d chosen to love, relieved that his inaction hadn’t made her wary of anyone else’s less complicated affections.

But as it happens, he was only privileged to see the beginning of all that, and it would be wrong to want anymore.

He’d gone to the docks again and searched for hours for a ship sailing for Westeros. He found one, traders from Braavos sailing for Storm’s End, and learned they were leaving in a week’s time. They would have a space for him if he did whatever work they needed required of him. He agreed and went straight back to the inn to begin his wait. 

And then everything went south. Jon absentmindedly opened the door to his room and Ghost ran without hesitation. Calling after him would bring attention them, running after him would bring attention to them, so he just followed again, knowing exactly what he would see when they stopped.

But she saw them too and followed until she found them.

Her anger was deserved, her hatred was deserved, relished even, but gods if he wasn’t dreading it now.

_Did you come all this way just to absolve your guilt?_

He’d stayed up all night thinking on her question. Isn’t that why he came? To assure himself that he didn’t ruin her life by sailing to Dragonstone?

The way she said it made him feel foolish. He couldn’t even explain to himself why his reasons weren’t completely selfish. Why did he come if not to make himself feel better for what had happened? Why could he not admit that when she’d asked?

She deserved transparency, not carefully filtered half-explanations. If she asked today, he would try to answer as best as he could, try to explain that he’s found himself without purpose or any motivation to find it. He didn’t know where to look, how to begin. He had no home, not truly. His family abandoned him, the Free Folk didn’t feel like his people, all he has is Ghost.

What would he say? He could ask her how she did it, how she managed to still smile after all they’d been through. She’d suffered the most, lost the most, yet here she was.

He isn’t sure he deserved her forgiveness; he’d done nothing to earn it, but he does want it. Maybe that would help, maybe it would allow him to leave the past behind.

The sun set, and he waited another hour before he left the inn, keeping his head down as he followed the path they took the day before.

When he reaches the gate, he hesitates, unsure of how to proceed, but the door opens within seconds, the soft candlelight inside bleeding onto the pavement.

Ghost trots over to him, his tail wagging happily, but Jon’s attention is stolen by the woman following behind him, taking slow steps in his direction, her face a blank, careful mask.

He tries to smile at her when she opens the gate for him, but she only nods in his direction before turning back to walk inside.

Jon tries not to feel disheartened at her actions, having only just built up enough courage to try and find the words to express his tangled thoughts.

He shuts the gate behind him and follows.

The courtyard is difficult to see in the dark, but what he sees is very nearly like his dream, the greenery and flowers, the smooth stones of the walkway. He feels a dull ache in his heart as he takes it in.

She quietly leads him through her home, straight to her kitchen, where she motions for him to sit at the small table against the wall. He does so without question.

“Would you like something to eat?” she asks, still turned away from him. Her voice is strained.

“Daenerys—”

“Drink?”

“No, thank you,” he answers with a sigh. “I’m lost.” He blurts it out before he loses his nerve again.

She turns slowly, puzzled at his outburst. “What?”

“That’s why I came here,” he explains, focusing on the distressed wood of the table. “I don’t what to do now.”

A chair scrapes against the floor and she sits in front of him. “You were supposed to be King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He avoids her eyes, but the bitterness in her voice is not hidden. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Why?”

Jon looks up. “It wasn’t mine to take, it never was. It should have been yours.”

“It couldn’t be mine, that’s why we agreed—”

“Grey Worm offered me a way out,” he interrupts. “And I couldn’t say no.”

“Grey Worm did this?”

“Not just Grey Worm. We needed to make the lie more believable. If I’d _really_ killed you, he wouldn’t have let me live, let alone take your throne without consequence. Tyrion would know something wasn’t right; Sansa might have figured it out. Instead, he took me prisoner. He held the city until the lords of Westeros convened for a summit.”

“Then you gave the kingdoms to your brother.”

“I didn’t see my brother until after my sentence was decided,” he replies honestly. “I didn’t see any of them.”

“Until you left for Castle Black?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask to go there?” The anger is gone, replaced by a mild curiosity that encourages him to be as truthful as he can be.

“No, but I didn’t care where I ended up, didn’t care what they did with me.”

Her brows furrow. “Your family sent you to the Wall? They could have pardoned you, let you return to Winterfell.”

Jon smiles at her. “Aye, they could have.”

His admission earned a look of pity. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. None of this was your fault. If I’m honest, I don’t think they really cared what I did, so long as I couldn’t cause any trouble. I suppose the Wall seemed a good place to be sent to and forgotten.”

His straightforward answer bothers her. She shakes her head. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Didn’t I?”

Her face smooths over. “Not from them.”

“It didn’t hurt as much as it should have.”

Her frown deepens, but she doesn’t say anything more.

Not wanting to fall into an awkward silence, Jon continues. “I left the Night’s Watch as soon as I arrived at the Wall,” he says. “Went north with the Free Folk.”

To his surprise, her lips twitch into a brief smile. “Tormund?”

He can’t help but smile back. “Aye. He doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

All too soon, sorrow dampens her amusement. “You know, if there was any where I’d thought you’d be happy, it would have been as far North as your feet could carry you.”

Her reply bothers him. He’d been well aware for a while now how inadequate he was for her, but hearing her words confirms that she never truly felt how deeply he loved her. Far north, away from her, and she’d simply accepted it as fact.

“Perhaps at one time that would have been true.”

Their eyes meet and he hopes she understands this time.

She looks away first, biting her lip as she focuses on the wall behind him. She places her hands on the table, fidgeting her fingers in discomfort.

“Dany,” he begins after a few moments. “Are you happy?”

Her eyes dart back to him and he sees a swift storm of emotion in them before they settle into something unreadable. “I am.”

Although heavily guarded, he can see the truth in her answer.

Jon attempts to reach for it, wanting to see her smile again. “The children?”

It works. Her eyes light up with excitement, and that soft smile graces her lips. “I teach them,” the pride in her voice warms him. “Their families…very few have the resources to hire a private tutor. But they deserve a chance to learn, every child does.”

“I never pictured you as a maester,” he teases with some trepidation. Even that felt like a privilege that was no longer his.

“Well, I’m not nearly so dull, I should hope,” she answers lightly, just at tentative him.

The smile slowly falls from her face, and then his, and uncomfortable tension fills the space, both unable to keep up the stilted pretense of normalcy.

He feels terrible again, for coming at all. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable in her own home.

“I hope Ghost wasn’t a bother today,” he says, clearing his throat.

“He was perfect. Didn’t make a sound while they were here. I gave him a bit of salted pork to eat but I’m not sure he liked it very much…”

“Thank you,” he says when she trails off. “I’ll repay you for it.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“It is. You weren’t expecting another mouth to feed.”

She shoulders drops, and there’s pity in her face again. “No, I wasn’t.”

“I, um, I found a ship going to Westeros in less than a fortnight. I’ll take Ghost off your hands tonight, of course, but you won’t have to worry about any of this for much longer. I’ll keep him indoors until we leave. It doesn’t mean much, but I truly never meant to disturb your peace.”

“A fortnight?”

He nods, slightly confused at the hard turn of her voice. He thought she’d be relieved to hear it.

“Is that enough time to get…unlost?”

“It has to be,” he says sadly. It didn’t allow him half the time to say all he needed to, and that’s if he saw her again past tonight. A paltry apology wouldn’t be enough to make up for anything, but it’s all he had to offer. “I’ll never be able to tell you how sorry—"

“Not tonight, Jon,” she presses, flattening her hands, sliding them slightly in his direction. “I do _want_ to hear what you have to say just…not tonight.”

“When?” he whispers.

“I don’t know.”

“I wish I could go back,” he offers, a preamble to his list of regrets. “I would do everything so differently.”

“I would, too.” She says with conviction. “I trusted the wrong people.”

Her words sting but he’s careful not to show it.

She continues. “I should have listened to Olenna…if I’d taken her advice, Missandei would be alive. And Jorah…and my sons.”

The shine of tears gathers in her eyes and he instinctively reaches out to take one of her hands in his.

She momentarily stills at the touch, but she doesn’t pull away. When he lightly squeezes it, she squeezes back.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not in apology but in sympathy. He doesn’t remember ever seeing her truly grieve, not after Viserion. She must have felt her pain in private; alone, and not once did he offer her comfort. 

Dany blinks the tears away, pulling her hand back until only their fingers touching.

She focuses on their hands, and he looks away, allowing her a moment of privacy.

“I’ve spent months wondering what it was I did wrong,” she starts in a whisper. “Why I wasn’t _enough_. Even after I’d done all I could to prove myself…your family despised me, and my advisers turned their backs to me. And you…I’ve should have known better than to fall in love with you.”

“Dany—"

“I know the revelation was a shock to you,” she cuts him off. “I don’t blame you for reacting to it…and I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to choose me over your family.”

He shakes his head. “You were my family, too.” He wouldn’t let her excuse his actions.

“That’s what destroyed us in the first place.”

“I shouldn’t have let it.” He sits back, his eyes dropping to the table, warning himself not to say any more.

He feels her gaze burning into him.

“You’re blaming yourself for too much.” She eventually says. “You _did_ make mistakes, but we all did. There is no reason to believe that things would have been any different if you were able to somehow go back and change your actions. I think that’s why you’re here,” she states with certainty. “You’re lost because all you can think about is what you did _wrong_.”

“I didn’t do much right.”

“That isn’t true. You never stopped fighting to save your people, to save the kingdoms from a threat no one believed. Even when they were all against you, when _I_ was against you. You saved them just as much as I did.”

“Aye, and what do I have to show for it?”

“What do I have to show for it?” She shrugs. “We may not be who we once were, but we’re both still alive. I’ve learned to accept that, you should too. And try not to let this second chance go to waste.”

“How do you do it?” he asks helplessly.

She smiles at him. “I _want_ to be happy. And you’re a glutton for punishment, Jon Snow,” she takes his hand in hers this time. “It isn’t easy. I have to remind myself every day. And I do it because I can wish all I want, too, but nothing I do can change the past.”

He isn’t looking for happiness. It’s such a distant concept to him, either far in future or in his past, but he can’t see it near at all. Even knowing she’s happy doesn’t settle his heart like he thought it would. So, what does he want?

He wants the guilt to go away. He wants forgiveness from her, the one he wronged the most. But asking for it feels wrong, at least in this moment.

He pulls his hand away completely, away from her burning touch so he doesn’t focus on things he can’t have. “I suppose I should try doing that first, then?”

She nods. “Trying to be happy? Yes. Even if you have to pretend at first…it’ll be real in time.”

“ _Wanting_ to be happy,” he corrects lowly.

Concern overtakes her features, but she doesn’t respond.

He drags his focus to the window behind her, the blackness of night reminding him of the hour.

Jon stands. “I should go, I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” she asks hastily, rising to her feet.

“They serve food at the inn.”

She grimaces. “It can’t be very good.”

“I’ve had worse,” he says, attempting a light smile.

She doesn’t look happy as she accepts his answer with a slow nod. “Well…alright then.”

“I, um…thank you. For this,” he clarifies, motioning between them. “I didn’t mean to…remind you of what happened.”

“It’s alright,” She sighs. “I think I may have needed it, too.”

She leads him out of the kitchen, and he keeps his eyes forward, resisting the urge to look around and learn as much about her life as he can.

_What does he want?_

He won’t say it, won’t even think it because it’s only a dream. The last two days in her presence, getting a peak into her life, is enough to make sooth the guilt, but it’s only a temporary fix.

When he gets to the door, he looks around for Ghost, expecting to find him lying about in her solar again only to see that it’s empty.

He’s about to call out to him when Dany speaks up. “He can stay until you leave.”

“We’ve imposed enough—”

“It isn’t an imposition,” she mutters in slight irritation. “Your room at the inn can’t be very big…I’d feel terrible if he was locked away in there for days. He can stay.”

“Can I bring him food at least?” _Can I see you again?_

While she hides her emotions well, her eyes go soft at his poorly concealed hope. “Yes.”

Lingering at the door, there’s an air of _something_ between them. He doesn’t want to name it. It could mean so many things or nothing at all.

He undoes the locks and opens the door, all with her standing behind him, watching him.

“Same time as tonight,” she reminds him, quiet and almost sweet.

Jon nods, holding back the smile he wants to give her. He could feel himself drifting into a dangerous territory, one wrought with tempting impossibilities and painful reminders.

“Goodnight, Daenerys,” he says carefully, before stepping out into the night, casting her one last glance as he closes the door between them.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, berating himself. He touches the door, the chipped, dry paint rough on his hand, tiny bits of it falling to the ground with the slightest slide of his fingers.

Jon shakes his head, suppressing the new hopes springing up with every second he’s near her. He leaves in a hurry, closing the gate behind him with unintentional force. He walks the distance to the inn in a tumultuous daze, clenching his fists at his sides, telling himself that her kindness towards him is nothing more than that, _kindness_. She pities him, is all. He saw it in her face more than once, and she’s too good to pretend it she doesn’t feel anything.

He makes it back to his inn without trouble and pays for a quick meal of fish and mead. After, he walks up to his room, ignoring the curious eyes of the other patrons. He washes himself with the tepid water in the basin, and sheds down to nothing but a pair of linen trousers before climbing into the small bed.

He thoughts are consumed by her still, even after his warnings, and at some point, he stops fighting it. Why did he come here if not for a chance at being in her life again? One look would have never been enough, he knows that now. He was foolish to think otherwise.

Even Tormund knew it before him. Every reminder that Jon gave him, that he only wanted to see with his own eyes that she was alright, was met with an annoying grin and a shake of his head.

Still, acknowledging it didn’t change anything. She did not want him here, of that he’s sure, and all his own feelings aside, he had no intention of acting against her wishes. He would leave with the ship, willing himself to find peace of mind that she was safe and happy, and with the heartbreaking realization that his own chance at happiness had already passed him by. He would approach the coming days carefully, readying himself for his departure and avoiding the temptation to be near her much as he could. He would say his piece when she let him, and then they could both move on.

\---------------

Jon would be back soon, she knows it.

He came back after that first night, as soon as the sun was down, handing her a satchel of dried meats for Ghost. He said it was enough for a few meals, thanked her again, and then left, not giving her a chance to say anything.

She didn’t like it at all, especially now.

Dany’s anxious to see him again, her initial irritation at his arrival already subsiding. She’s concerned for him. The resentment is there, an undercurrent that’s strong and silent just below her skin, but then she pictures his face at her table, the sadness in his eyes as he told her of the events that led him there, the deep regret and guilt that she could feel emanating from him, and she pushes everything else aside.

She wants to help him, if she can. If he needed her forgiveness, she could give him that. If he needed her to say that she did not blame him for everything that befell her, she would say it. She would mean it, too. She had no reason to hold onto any of it anymore, not when its own hold on her had all but disappeared. She needed him to be here and say goodbye without the desperation that had blanketed them in the throne room. They had left things unresolved and now they had a chance to resolve them as best they could.

_He doesn’t even want to be happy._

That upset her the most. Even for all his mistakes, he didn’t deserve the sentence handed down to him, by his family or by his gods. He’d been stripped of everything despite the fact that he could have been a king in another life. She knows he didn’t care about all of that, but she had to wonder if he felt cheated, deceived by his own family.

After everything he’d endured, Jon Snow deserves to be happy. He deserves to live without the self-imposed duty of carrying the guilt of others. His own, he would naturally shed in time, but Tyrion’s guilt was not his. _Her_ guilt was not his. Sansa’s guilt, if she had any, did not need to occupy her brother’s mind.

If she could get that across to him, she thinks it’ll help. It’ll clear the obstacles in his heart and he’d soon enough find a path to happiness like she had.

“Miss, are you alright? You’re awful quiet today. Are you sick?”

Dany instinctively smiles, before turning to answer Doraya. “I’m alright. Just a bit distracted today.”

Her eyes narrow in suspicion, but she only nods and goes back to her assignment. Dany had been sinking into her concern all throughout the day, her eyes drifting to her home where his companion is, wondering if the wolf worried as she did.

It was nearing late afternoon, four children had already been retrieved, and she knows the other eight would be gone within the hour. Then, she would have her little treat with Doraya before walking her back to the orphanage.

Any other day, she would pass the hour with practiced patience, but today she keeps looking towards the door, waiting for parents to show up at take their children.

Dany doesn’t know what to expect, what she’ll say or how she’ll feel, but she thinks she’s prepared for it. The night they talked she could hear the changes in her own voice, the walls crumbling and revealing the past intimacy they shared. She built it back up when he left, quickly, but she could tell it isn’t nearly as strong as it had been. That part of her life is over, the Queen and the Warden of the North were dead and buried, and digging them up would only disturb the fresh, new, pretty life she’d built atop the grave. It’s too much of a risk.

The children leave, and then it’s only Doraya.

“Miss, are you sad about something?” She asks as they eat the tarts Dany made.

“No, love, I suppose I’m just a bit tired.”

“Is your kitchen still a mess? It’s alright if you made a mess baking, I won’t mind it. The little ones at the home always make a mess.”

She laughs, finding her reassurance sweet. She felt a little bad about the lie, but with Doraya living with several other children, she didn’t want the word of Ghost getting out. “Only a few more days and then it’ll be spotless.”

They eat, and Doraya helps her tidy up the classroom before they begin their walk.

The observant little girl stays quiet as they walk, even when Dany tries to fill the silence with conversation. When they arrive at the orphanage, Doraya says that she hopes she feels better before disappearing inside.

On her walk back, she forces herself to think about other things. She makes a stop at the stalls near the docks, purchasing fish for supper. She plans her lessons for the next day, she makes her shopping list for her next trip to the markets, she carries on as if nothing is different.

It’s useless, though, because when she walks through her red door, Ghost is there, his tail wagging slightly at the sight of her, and her thoughts wander to him again.

She runs her fingers through his fur in greeting as she walks to her kitchen. He follows, no doubt waiting on his next meal.

Dany laughs when his tail drops as she places more salted pork in front of him. She mentally adds food for Ghost to her list. “That’s the last of it, I promise. We’ll try fish next time, yes?”

He groans in response before taking it in his mouth and disappearing to whatever spot in her home he’d claimed for his own.

With nothing else to do, she starts on supper, deboning the fish, cutting the vegetables, boiling water. The task, which once required her entire focus, is only a half-distraction now, because she keeps looks out the window, waiting impatiently for the sun to go down.

Just as she finishes frying the fish, Ghost appears, looking at her expectantly. Her heart flips as she understands why.

She follows him to her door, smiling when he bolts out to greet Jon. She goes to greet him too, confused when he seemingly avoids meeting her eye.

He nods in greeting. “Daenerys.”

The strange coldness mystifies her, but she acts as if she doesn’t notice. “You can just open it, you know. I don’t mind.”

He flashes her a weak smile. “Seemed presumptuous.”

“Are you alright?” she asks, feeling a bit annoyed. She didn’t like that he was acting as if this is an inconvenience.

He looks at her again, his smile a little more real. “Sorry, just tired, I suppose.”

“Tired?”

“Aye, been working at the docks all day,” he explains. “I need to earn my bunk on the ship. And the extra space for Ghost.”

The mention of his imminent departure makes her speak without thinking. “Come with me,” she says quickly, turning to walk back inside.

Jon follows without question. They take the familiar path to her kitchen and he sits, staying quiet as he waits for her to say something. 

“I made supper,” she states, plating the fish and vegetables. “And you’re going to eat this time.”

She throws a smile over her shoulder, trying to keep the mood light. Light was safe, and she needed to feel safe a little while longer.

Surprisingly it works and he smiles back, amusement washing away the tired look on his face. “I’m too hungry to argue,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

Dany places the meal in front of him, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. She’s baked for her pupils before, and none spit out her food, but this felt incredibly more intimate. Either way, she knows even if he didn’t like it, Jon Snow will be polite enough to pretend otherwise.

She sits across from him and begins to eat her own serving, pleased and proud that she’d flavored the food is just right. 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” He says in between bites.

“You should have seen me in the beginning,” she says, smiling to herself at the memories. “Everything was either over-salted or completely bland. Entirely inedible.”

“I can’t imagine it took you long to perfect it.”

“A few months,” she says, following his lead in the superficial pleasantries. “I only just learned how to bake a decent loaf of bread. It’s harder than it looks.”

“Aye, but you’re too stubborn to fail,” he says witfully, almost to himself.

She raises an eyebrow. “Too stubborn?”

“I only meant…” he trails off when he realizes she’s teasing. “Yes, too stubborn.”

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one.” He smiles at her, his eyes sad.

“Jon…” she starts, setting down her utensils. “Why don’t you want to be happy?”

He sighs, his own falling to the plate with a small clink. “My family is safe, _you’re_ safe. That’s all I care about.”

She narrows her eyes and straightens her back. She won’t let him get by with a weak answer. “You came all this way for a reason. After everything, I think I’m owed the truth.”

He’s vexed at her insistence but answers anyway. “I have no reason to be happy. Sansa used me. Arya and Bran didn’t support me. They insisted I was their brother despite who my father was, but I’ve never felt more like an outsider. I trusted them. I betrayed you. And because of me, Tyrion and Varys betrayed you.”

Just as she suspected, he’s carrying the guilt of everyone else.

“What your family did to you is a reflection of who they are, not you. It isn’t right for you to blame yourself for their actions. And you’re right, you did betray me,” she wouldn’t let that misjudgment go so easily. “but Tyrion and Varys were _my_ advisors. They were well aware of that and still chose to do what they did. If they could do it so easily then…I’m inclined to think it was only a matter of time, really.”

He shakes his head in denial. “But if it happened later, you would have had the Seven Kingdoms at your back. Executing two men for treason would have been nothing but the rightful actions of a monarch. Instead, Varys lost confidence in you and Tyrion saw his death as a sign of madness. I never argued otherwise, I never spoke up for you. _I_ did this, Daenerys. This is _my_ fault. Why don’t you hate me for it?”

“I _did_ hate you. But there’s no reason to hold on to any of it. It only hurts,” she pauses, wincing at the vulnerability she exposed. She won’t do it again, trust him with her feelings. Still, she can’t but feel an immense heartache at his turmoil. But it’s not her place to try and fix it. She tells him as much. “You need to stop this,” she starts bluntly. “As you said, your family is safe and I’m safe. The White Walkers are gone, and the wars are over. We should be glad that more wasn’t stolen from us.”

“ _Everything_ was stolen from us,” he says, a sudden spark of fire in his eye. “That bloody throne was yours. The north was yours. I wanted that for you, more than anything.”

She’s dumbstruck at his admission, taken aback by the passion in his voice. _Us._ He said it so easily that she couldn’t help but wonder how often he’d imagined what would have happened if she’d stayed, where _his_ place would be.

 _It’s the dragon’s blood in him,_ she thinks.

She regrets having to temper it now. “But it’s not mine. None of it,” she says harshly. “And I won’t wish for something that’s not mine anymore. I have Drogon and I have my home. _This_ is mine. I’m done wanting anything more. I tried and I failed.”

Dany takes a deep breath, feeling a strange lightness at finally letting those words escape from her mind.

For a moment it seems as if he’s going to argue, but then the fire dulls, and his eyes drop to the table in defeat. He still doesn’t believe her. She thinks it will be a long while before he does. But still, she grows angry when she sees that it has no effect on him at all. He looks just as dejected and worn out. The picture of self-pity. As much as she empathizes with him, a surge of exasperation pushes her over the edge of understanding.

“What do you want from me, Jon? Yes, you betrayed me when you told them, but you had already cast me aside long before then,” she says coldly. She’d thought it so many times, it doesn’t hurt so much to put her pain into words. “I was alone in Winterfell. Your lords hated me, and you did nothing. Your family hated me, and you did nothing. I lost half my army for the north and no one cared. You didn’t even seem to care. You chose all of them over me. Of all the things you did, your last betrayal hurt the least. If anything, it was expected. You _used_ me for my dragons and my armies and then you stopped caring.”

He looks nearly offended at her accusations. “You know that’s not true—”

“I don’t know that. And it doesn’t matter anyway, that’s how it felt. Even after, when Missandei was killed you couldn’t—” tears come to her eyes as she remembers how detached he’s been on Dragonstone. So disturbed by their shared blood he couldn’t offer her even the briefest words of comfort.

_Is that all I am to you, your queen?_

She’s embarrassed at how many chances she gave him when he made no effort to take them. She’s worried that the weakness would burrow its way back into her heart despite its warnings.

“After you told me about Lyanna and Rhaegar,” she continues, blinking away the tears. “Regardless of your claim to the throne, I _was_ happy. I wasn’t the last anymore, I had family. Even if you couldn’t be anything more, it would have meant a great deal to me if you didn’t reject it so strongly,” she shrugs. “But you did, along with everything else that had to do with me. And for all their talk about Targaryen madness, Varys and Tyrion still followed after you. I was _alone_.”

“Dany—” his voice is tired, frail.

“You changed,” she continues, finding it difficult to stop her outpouring of grievances. “The man you were at Winterfell was not the same man I met at Dragonstone. I don’t know what it was, I couldn’t figure out what I’d done, but I know now that it wasn’t me at all…Do you know what I think?”

He looks down, closing his eyes. “What?” 

“I think you were _weak_ ,” she says softly. She doesn’t want to make him feel any worse than he already does, but he needs to hear all of it. “Your family disapproved of me, so you kept your distance to please them instead of defending me. Your friend, Sam, he told you what I did to his father and brother, didn’t he?” she pauses, waiting for a sign of confirmation. He looks up at her, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark and guarded. At his short nod, she continues. “And you disapproved, judged me for it. Because _they_ did. And Rhaegar…you said it as if it were the worst thing in the world and all I could think was that you looked so sorry because you knew you had to take it from me. Because your _family_ wanted you to.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” he pushes out in a whisper.

“What else was I to think? You could hardly look at me. And when you did, I could _see_ their influence on you. You didn’t trust me anymore.”

When she finishes, Jon doesn’t bother fighting anything she’s said. He sits in silence, and she hopes he understands that even for all the pain he’d caused her, she didn’t hate him for it anymore. It hardly affects her. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she knows that all he did was not done with the intention of hurting her, he only failed to see that it did.

He’s lost in his thoughts, more than likely fighting himself on what to believe.

Dany decides to let him think without feeling the pressure of her presence. She stands from the table, leaving her plate to clean up later.

She walks out quietly, feeling his eyes follow her. She doesn’t like where he’s left her, waiting on him to do something, say something. It’s maddening. It’s all too familiar, but she reminds herself that nothing is the same. This time, she isn’t waiting with hopeless desperation for his response. Dany’s calm as she walks away from him, only feeling the slight ache of the remnants of everything she felt before. She sits in the front room with Ghost, blinking away the tears that wanted to fall.

Minutes pass in silence and then she hears the faint sound of the chair scraping against the floor. His footsteps are slow, but moments later he joins her, again taking the seat next to her.

She waits for him to speak up first, keeping her eyes trained on Ghost.

“Nothing I say will ever be enough,” he says gruffly.

She spares a quick glance at him, finding him leaning forward, his head in his hands.

“Try,” she says dully. “I just…I want you to explain.”

Jon sighs, a shaky exhale that tells her how nervous he really is.

“When we arrived in Winterfell, I was so happy to see them. But they were strangers to me, really. I’d not seen Bran or Arya in years and Sansa…I knew there were things she would never tell me and that was okay. I didn’t know them anymore, but I loved them. I didn’t want to fight with them. Not when dying was a very real possibility.”

He stops, and she realizes that it’s all he’s able to put to words on the matter. He probably didn’t understand it himself really, especially now after it’s all over.

“And Tyrion…Sam even, they’re both smarter than me. I suppose I didn’t argue against their judgment because I had nothing of value to offer,” she finally looks at him, making no effort to hide her disbelief and slight anger at his admission. “You’re right, I was weak. I didn’t fight for anything I wanted because it was selfish. I’m not accustomed to being selfish…didn’t think it was the right time to be.”

“Was it selfish to defend an ally?”

He looks at her then, a serious, wistful look on his face. “They knew you were more than that.”

“Was I?” she counters, digging for the answers to questions she’d had in her head for months on end. “After you knew about your father, you—”

“I was confused, trying to make sense of it all,” he interrupts. “I just needed time.”

She closes her eyes, stopping herself from reading into his words. “We didn’t have time.”

“I know that now, it’s…I thought it was the right thing to do. Staying away. Sansa and Arya were already…cold towards you, and you were worried about my claim to the throne. I thought it would be easier for everyone if we just stopped.”

She closes her eyes, knowing his words are true and yet still so disappointed in them. Uncomplicated thinking for a complicated situation. But again, the remorse and near incredulity in his voice tells her he hardly understood it either.

“But it bothered you, too, didn’t it? That I’m your aunt by blood.”

She watches him closely, waiting for the disgust or aversion that she could never quite place before. He was too closed off for her to see. 

But she doesn’t see it now, either.

“I though it should’ve.”

Cryptic, but revealing enough for her to know what he means. She sighs too, joining him in sorrow for the past. “Why couldn’t you tell me this then?”

“Because if I told you, it would have been real,” he eventually answers. “It would have been over.”

She shakes her head, ignoring the way his honesty pulls at her, beckons her to feel more than she knows is wise. “It was already over, Jon. Even without an explanation, I knew it was. Keeping that to yourself _was_ selfish. It may have lessened your pain, but it only made mine worse.”

He shakes his head, staring at the wall in front of him. “I wasn’t ready to give you up,” he looks at her, a regretful smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “I suppose that should have told me something, right?”

_You didn’t have to give anything up._

This time, she has to look away, focusing again on Ghost. “It should have,” she agrees quietly. She feels his eyes on her, watching her closely, like he’s overcompensating for all the times he’d ignored her before. She straightens her back, finding their talk too close to her healed heart. “When I…destroyed King’s Landing,” she starts, the words still difficult to say after all this time. “You thought I planned it, didn’t you?”

She couldn’t forget his face when he first approached her. Even when he realized it wasn’t true, the belief had still wedged its way into its mind, and he let it. This betrayal hurt the most, the one that broke her enough to push her to ask him to end her life. In that moment, she didn’t care anymore, had nothing left. Because if _he_ could doubt her, think her capable of such atrocities after everything memory and secret and dream she shared with him, then she must truly be the Mad King’s daughter and nothing else.

Of course, now she doesn’t believe any of that. It was only her pain speaking, the grief trying to guide her to the last peace she thought was available to her, drowning out the sounds of rationality.

“I didn’t know what I thought,” he answers, eyes burning into her, pleading with her to understand. “I was in shock...I—I couldn’t understand what happened. But Tyrion, he told me what he believed happened. And he was so sure, I…” _I was weak._

She finally looks at him and sees the guilt at its peak. He would no doubt spend the rest of his life there if no one tried to talk him down. She could leave him there, part of her believes she had every right to, but she knows how cold it is, how lonely.

Dany finds herself reaching for him, placing her hand on his arm, sliding it down to take his hand in hers. She doesn’t think twice about it.

“If you need my forgiveness, then it’s yours,” she eventually says. “I won’t spend my life being angry at you, so you don’t need to spend yours feeling guilty. Despite what you think you deserve, I don’t crave your misery, Jon.”

His own grip on her is tight, anguished. “Perhaps the guilt will go away, but the regret won’t ever leave me.”

“Well…there’s nothing I can do to fix that,” she replies gently.

Her reply seems to kill the intensity flourishing between them.

Immediately, he loosens his grip, his hand going limp in hers.

She pulls away, feeling acute disappointment at his easy acceptance instead of the closure she’d been anticipating. But she can’t pull away completely. She leans towards him until they’re pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, for her comfort or his, she doesn’t know.

They sit like that, close and silent, for what feels like hours.

The unease of having him here in her home had dissipated without her knowledge and despite the stark reality of their circumstances, it feels almost normal.

Dany decides to offer some words of advice, knowing just how suffocating regrets can be. “Don’t think about it,” she says softly. “Pretend it never happened at all, if it gets to be too much. Just…look forward. There are so many possibilities in front of you now, Jon. You just have to look.”

“I know exactly what’s in front of me…I’d rather the regret. At least then I’ll have the memories too, even if they do hurt.”

He says it plainly, staring down in front of him. She knows he’s not looking at her to avoid making her uncomfortable, but she feels every word. And behind the controlled delivery, the grief and longing still reach her.

“You can do that, too. That’s what I do,” she offers with honesty. “It was hard in the beginning. It made me angry and sad, but the people that I loved, the people that made me smile, made me feel safe, loved me back…well, I have to fight my way through the hard things to remember them. But I don’t want to forget.”

He doesn’t seem to realize he’s part of it, part of the things she doesn’t want to forget.

“You lost them in terrible ways,” he answers. “Circumstances that were out of your hands. I didn’t lose my family. They left me behind, and I let them. I lost you because I was weak.”

His admissions are slowly becoming more revealing, more heartbreaking because she knows they can’t do anything about it. She can’t bring herself to believe that his words are rooted in something other than hopelessness. Sadly, she can’t even imagine his regret would be so great if she’s become queen like she wanted. Then, he would have nothing to be so tormented over…nothing tempting him back to her. _He’s just like me,_ she thinks. _He just needs a little longer to put himself back together._

“You have to move on, Jon,” she eventually says. “Whatever is was that we had is over…and probably for the best. It never would have worked. You wanted your peace and freedom and I would have been beholden to the crown. And I don’t imagine your sisters would be very happy if you went against their wishes. I wouldn’t have wanted you to fight with them. I think we may have gotten too caught up, too idealistic on that ship to White Harbor. People like you and me…well, we should have realized it could only be temporary.”

As she says them, she realizes she’s saying it for her just as much as him. There’s no truth to them, she acknowledges that immediately, only an effort to close the door on the memory.

Jon shakes his head, looking at her with hurt, but he keeps quiet. Again, she finds herself slightly disappointed.

“It’s not as easy for me as it is for you,” he replies, a sharp edge to his otherwise miserable tone. “Everything changed and now all I’m left with is this truth that’s done nothing but ruin me. I don’t know what it means to be his son…her son.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything at all if you don’t want it to. Isn’t that what you wanted, to be Jon Snow and nothing more? It’s why you took Grey Worm’s offer. Why you left King’s Landing after I did.” bitterness bleeds into her voice as well. He _should_ be happy, all things considered. She knows he didn’t want to be king of anything.

“That isn’t fair,” he counters. “You’ve always known who you were.”

Instantly, she feels terrible for her accusatory question. “You’re right,” she concedes. “I can’t imagine how you felt. But you could have told me, Jon,” she sighs. “I could have…I would have listened. I don’t know much about Rhaegar but…I—If you want to know now—”

“No,” he says abruptly, his voice firm. “As you said, I’m Jon Snow and nothing more. It _is_ what I wanted.”

He straightens his back, the sadness leaving him…or crawling back inside.

“Thank you for supper, Daenerys,” he says cordially. He gives her a small, controlled smile. “It was lovely.”

With that he stands, leaving her sitting in confusion.

“Jon—”

“I’ll bring more food for Ghost tomorrow,” he says quietly. “Before dawn so I don’t draw attention. I’ll leave it just inside the gate, if that’s alright?”

Dany nods, still perplexed by his sudden change.

“I’ll relieve you of him the night before I’m set to depart. Should be no longer than a week, I believe.”

She can’t hold her tongue any longer. “You’re not coming back?”

“I think it’s best of I don’t,” he answers stiffly. Then he looks at her, his mouth set in a thin line, but his eyes are pleading with her. “Please understand why.”

Strangely, it’s a relief to hear because she does understand. This foolish thing building between them is too risky to even consider acting upon. The smartest thing for them to do is go their separate ways now.

“Of course,” she replies stoically.

He makes his way out of the room and while she knows it would best to remain where she is until she hears the door close behind him, she still follows.

When he moves to open the door, she can’t help but reach out to him, her fingers lightly touching the sleeve of his shirt.

He stops. She sees his shoulders rise with a deep breath before he turns to face her.

A rush of sadness courses through her. The moment feels incomplete, but final anyway. She would see him once more and then he would be gone again. It worries her that their talks have only made things worse for him.

She feels the burn of tears in her eyes, but she manages a smile.

Without second thought, she moves closer, wrapping her arms around him.

Jon freezes under her touch for a heartbeat, and then melts just as quickly. His arms go around her waist, pulling her towards him.

Dany closes her eyes, already mourning the inevitable comfort his arms seemed to offer her. After all this time, the feeling hadn’t faded.

She holds him tight for a brief moment and then pulls away, feeling shy and slightly embarrassed at her actions. He lets her go immediately, another trembled breath leaving him.

He opens his mouth, to say goodbye, she knows, but with a slight shake of her head she stops him.

Words didn’t seem quite right.

He leaves without another thing said between them. Her feet keep her planted just inside the door as he closes it softly behind him.

The faint creak of the gate outside tells her he’s gone.

At first, she feels dejected.

As she cleans up the remnants of their supper, she feels disappointed and wholly unsatisfied, her mind insisting that she should anticipate something more.

Blowing out the lit candles around her home, she feels angry. Angry at him for the choices he made and the poor reasons for making them, angry at herself for caring so much.

Later, when she’s lying in bed, Ghost snoring quietly on the floor beside her, she allows a few tears to escape. Only a few, she tells herself firmly, because tomorrow it’ll be as if he isn’t here at all. Save for his wolf, Jon Snow is no longer attached to her in any way. Not in grief, or anger, or love.

\---------------

It’s been three days since he last saw her, three days since he’d held her.

It was like a sweet dream, that short moment she was in his arms. It was the only instance in her home that he hadn’t felt completely nauseated by himself and the truths she’d forced him to acknowledge.

Dany’s anger had been short-lived, however, because then she forgave him. Words he craved to hear but they did nothing.

Her delivery was resigned, practiced.

He’d rather her hate than her indifference.

They would be leaving in five days and he dreaded going back to the North. Thinking of the miles of untouched snow and emptiness had him watching everything around him closely. The people and their vibrant clothes. Colors he would never see again. He tried different foods when he could, savoring flavors that wouldn’t be north of the wall. Even the heat, he made himself appreciate.

All the while, he picks apart that night. The changes in her voice, the flares of emotions in her lovely face. She didn’t act the way he expected, the way he’d prepared himself for.

He turns her words in his head, searching for anything he might have missed. 

_If you need my forgiveness, then it’s yours._

_Don’t think about it. Pretend it never happened at all._

_It never would have worked._

_Isn’t that what you wanted, to be Jon Snow and nothing more?_

_I think you were weak._

She was trying to help him, guide him to the answers she thought he sought, but they only served to push him further into it.

He hadn’t earned her forgiveness in any way. He could think about nothing else but everything that happened. If he considered it objectively, he’d been nothing more than a lover, but he _knows_ they would have been everything if not for him. She was it for him, but of course she didn’t know that. Jon Snow and nothing more felt like a mocking punishment more than a relief.

One thing he couldn’t deny was that he was weak…laughably weak.

Had he only spoken up for her, listened to her when she told him not to tell his sisters. Had he not brushed off the fear in her eyes, Tyrion and Varys would have never known. Had he not tried his best to avoid her and said something when they decided to travel south separately, he could have been there when Euron attacked. Or he could have insisted they travel by road with him and no one else she loved would have been lost.

He doesn’t know why he lingers on it. Nothing would change, but something in him stubbornly wouldn’t let it go.

That part told him to earn the respect she once held for him. Earn her forgiveness and not the branch she offered out of pity and her own desire to let go of the anger. That part told him to listen to the silence in between her words, the looks that dared him to challenge what she’d come to believe of him. That part told him to prove he isn’t weak.

He walks quietly down through the empty streets, surprised by the coolness the air had while the sun was down. In his hand is another sack of food for Ghost, enough to last until the final day.

Jon knows she’s still asleep, but he’s nervous, wary of the parts of him that grow bold and desperate as his time here runs thin.

He nears the gate and opens it slowly, not wanting to wake her with the groan of the rusted metal. He wishes he could fix it for her before he left.

Hours later, she’s still at the forefront of his mind. Little thoughts are adamant. He fixated on the damn gate, wondering if it bothered her as it did him. She cooked for him and he wants to somehow return the favor. He feels like he owes her a proper thanks for sheltering Ghost.

On the fourth day, the ideas of small favors turn to a tentative insistence that he shouldn’t leave unless it was the only option available to him. He had a growing urge to prove her wrong.

He argued with himself over it, thinking of it as overstepping. He isn’t wanted here, not by her. He countered that he didn’t know that because he didn’t ask her. The worst she could say would make his misery that much deeper, but at least it would be at its lowest depth instead of teetering on the edge of possibilities and questions he didn’t ask.

What does he want?

He wants to stay here, for a while at least, and live a life that’s surrounded by unknowns. He knows the North, he knows the people, the land, the smells, and while he admired its beauty, he’d had his fill. He considers leaving anyway, though not to Westeros. He could travel, visit cities he’d only heard about in stories, go to Meereen and see all the good she’d done. But he doesn’t want that either. He likes Braavos and the anonymity he has here. It’s not much, he’s very obviously not from the east, but they ignore him, don’t look at him with unnerving respect or disdain. And at the root of it all is her.

When she unexpectedly pulled him into a hug, he wondered how he’d gone so long without her touch. The tenderness between them was just as warm, just as intimate as it had been in when she was his.

He won’t get his hopes up though, not any higher than they were. She said what they had was done, quite confidently, and he would respect that. He wouldn’t push for anything more than a friendship, perhaps not even that, but at least a permission to worry about her well-being.

On the sixth day, he’s gathered as much courage as he could.

He paces in his room as the sun goes down, not able to put his thoughts into a coherent order, his palms sweaty and his stomach churning.

Several times, he nearly cowers out, telling himself that if he simply retired to bed, the hours would pass quickly, and he would soon enough be on a ship back home and away from foolish ideas.

He likes the foolish ideas though, and when night finally arrives, he walks down the still busy streets without so much a hesitant step.

Fifteen minutes later he reaches her home and pauses outside the door before courage makes him open it, remembering her words from before.

Just as he does, her front door swings open, and Ghost trots out to him.

He lingers at the gate when he she’s that she’s coming too, the courage seemingly abandoning him.

“Jon?”

Her voice is cautious.

“Daenerys,” he greets tentatively, putting all his effort into keeping eye contact with her.

“This is it, then?” she asks with a bit of sharpness. “Are you here for Ghost?”

“No, actually, I—Can I speak to you inside?”

Her brows furrow in confusion but she nods.

The walk inside is quiet and tense, but the hint of anticipation keeps his feet moving.

She gestures to the sitting room once they’re inside, looking at him with concern now. 

“Well?” she asks carefully once they’re sat down.

“I’m supposed to leave the day after tomorrow,” he starts quietly. His voice shockingly steady. “But I don’t want to.”

She sits back slightly, surprise clear in her eyes. “I—what?”

“I don’t want to leave,” he says with more certainty. “You told me to look forward, but I know nothing in the North will make me want to be happy. Nothing in Westeros will. Braavos is your home now, and I don’t want to take that away from you. I wanted to know if you would be alright with it…if I didn’t get on that ship.”

She’s staring at him, her mouth turned in a small frown. “And if I said no?”

His heart tightens. “Then I would leave.”

“Where would you go?”

“Anywhere else,” he shrugs, trying to remain nonchalant while his blood rushed in a panic under his skin. “But I’ll leave Essos, if you want me to. I will. Just…say the word.”

“Jon, I…” she appears nervous now, her head shaking. Her eyes fill with sadness, pity. “We can’t be—”

“I know,” he interrupts. He doesn’t want her rejection put to words. He already knows. “I won’t bother you. I’ll find work on the other side of the city so we never cross paths, I’ll—"

“And Ghost?” she questions.

“He’s my wolf, he won’t be a burden to you anymore.”

She lets out a small huff. “He isn’t a burden.”

“Either way, I’ll take him off your hands.”

“Jon, what you do is none of my business,” she says firmly. “If you want to stay here, I won’t be the one to tell you that you can’t.”

“But I want you to,” he replies with earnest. “If my being here will cause trouble for you or bother you just tell me.”

Her eyes soften. “What will you do here?” her voice is piqued with curiosity.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I can find something to do, somewhere, and save enough to rent a bigger room. The docked ships are always looking for easy labor…or I’d venture to say I’m a decent teacher with a sword. I don’t know, really,” he says a bit sheepishly. “but the North is…I don’t want that.”

After his stumbling words, she remains quiet long enough to have him sweating again before the edges of her lips lift in a hint of a smile. “You almost sound excited,” she replies. If his ears aren’t playing tricks on him, he could swear there’s a genuine tenderness to her voice. “I’m glad…but I don’t want you staying for the wrong reasons,” she says gently. “If you stay here, you shouldn’t…hold onto things that are in the past and—”

“I know, Daenerys,” he interjects quietly. “As I said, you don’t ever have to see me, but if it worries you…”

She puts her hand on his bicep, squeezing it gently. “I want you to be happy, Jon. And if letting that ship sail for Westeros without you is what will make you happy, then you should do it.”

The relief is nearly crippling, and he has to look away from her before he embarrasses himself even further with tears. He wrings his hands together, his appreciation escaping in his contained, safe movements, instead of the hug he wants to pull her into.

“I think you’d make for a great instructor,” she offers. “You’re a gifted swordsman. It would be a travesty to never yield your sword again.”

“Aye,” he agrees. “I’ll start there, I suppose.”

“In front of the Sealord’s Palace, the water dancers duel,” she says. “It’s not the same style of fighting, but they might be willing to help you start somewhere. Someone may want to learn the Westerosi style. They might need an experienced instructor.”

He nods, remembering the name. He wouldn’t mind trying that first. While he enjoyed the peace, his sword arm itched to be put to action.

Jon would explore the city as well. He’d been all over, from Daenerys’ home in the north eastern part of the city to the southernmost part to look for work in the fish markets, but he never bothered to explore the streets in between. Optimistically, he thinks there might plenty of opportunities for him to find work, even outside of physical labor.

With any other reason to linger, he concludes that he should leave, not wanting to disturb her night any more than necessary.

“I’ll take Ghost with me,” he says, holding up a hand when she starts to protest. “He can stand a few days at the inn until I find somewhere more permanent to stay.”

She looks put-out by his words, but he knows it’s for the best. If he had any chance of accepting her romantic disinterest, then he needs to stay away from her.

“Well,” she says, standing up. “I hope you won’t allow him to suffer too long.”

He takes the hint and rises quickly, looking down at the direwolf comfortably laying in front of them. “Let’s go, boy.”

Ghost blinks at him once, and then lowers his head back to the ground.

He hears Daenerys’ quiet laugh beside him.

“ _Ghost_ ,” he says a bit more firmly, trying his best not to look at her. “Now.”

Mercifully at his tone, Ghost listens this time, pulling himself up and going right past them to the door.

Jon trails after him, Daenerys right on his heels.

“Well, I suppose this is goodbye. _Again_.” She says quietly.

He faces her, feeling far less defeated than he had the last time he tried to say farewell. “It is.”

She searches his face, her lips twisted in a small smile. “Good luck, Jon. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“I hope so, too.”

Walking back to the inn, his unknown future feels a little less bleak. The prospect of never feeling the cold or seeing his family again tries to force its weight on him, but it doesn’t land.

He does wonder, however, if they would ever notice that he’s left Westeros. Bran knows, Jon is sure of it, but something tells Jon he would keep that knowledge locked away.

And then the thought of Bran makes him wonder if he should tell Dany. It never came up, she never asked, and he never thought to mention it because strangely enough, it didn’t worry him. But he thinks she would like to know that someone other than him and Grey Worm knows she’s alive.

He begins to turn back around, but he catches himself, realizing that the urgency of it is made up in his own head. An excuse to go back to her. It had been almost a year since Daenerys had fled, and it looks to Jon as though her life had remained undisturbed until him. He couldn’t be sure of a lot of things concerning Bran, but he’s confident that this peculiar version of his brother isn’t needlessly cruel. If he wanted her gone, he wouldn’t let her live so long just to hunt her down. Besides, she’s probably already considered the possibility.

It would be more difficult that he thought to focus his attention on just himself. He would just have to pretend, trick himself into thinking that she isn’t here too, living her own life streets away. But he’s determined to force himself out of the hole of despondency. For the first time in nearly a year, he has a desire to see what the next day had to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late night talks can be cathartic lol, Almost done with the next (last) chapter of this lil story so hopefully I'll have it up soon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! That you everyone for the feedback and lovely comments on the last 3 chapters ( I WILL reply to them at some point 😂i just need to find the time) So this is gonna be 5 chapters instead of 4 🙈It was getting long and I tried to go back and cut out all of the rambling, but no one seems to mind it. Hope you guys enjoy!

Daenerys wonders about him on occasion.

It’s been two full moons now, and she’s decided that he must have found something to occupy his time. She smiles when she thinks of him, northern, stoic, and awkward, trying to acclimate to the vibrant city.

Having lived in Essos most of her life, she’s familiar with the bold eccentricity some Braavosi have, but Jon grew up around stiff-lipped, uptight lords and ladies, traditionalists and rigid customs. She hopes he’s faring well, perhaps even picking up some Valyrian. She tried to teach him once, but that game quickly to turned to something more. She doubts he remembered any of it. 

She wonders if he’s made any friends here. Dany is confident that some group or other will have welcomed him into their fold and helped him find his place. She hopes he isn’t lonely.

Dany reminds herself often that she shouldn’t worry as often as she does, and more times than not she manages to successfully go hours without a thought of him crossing her mind. But it happens at least once a day. When she’s not teaching, she carries on as if nothing has changed. She shops, watches children play in the streets, but she finds herself looking around, part of her hoping to find a flash of white and the other part relieved when she sees that he’s keeping his word.

It’s strange how she feels. Before, she was quite proud of herself for moving on. She felt strong, more her confident self when he was no longer crowding her mind and making her feel loved and insecure and vulnerable all at once. Now her mind is just as clear, she’s sure of herself, but he slips into her thoughts enough to make her question her pride.

She justifies it by saying that she hasn’t spoken to an adult in months. Other than Moriah and her two daughters, she doesn’t know anyone else really, and she couldn’t go so far as to say they were truly more than acquaintances. 

Dany misses her friends more than ever. Missandei was as close to a sister as she ever had, she wanted her company and her advice. She misses Jorah and his kindness. Even with Tyrion, she had fond memories of witty conversation and honest exchanges. She longs to sit at a table with the closest people in her circle, laughing and sharing stories in between battle plans and dreams of a bright future. She hates the think that it was the peak of her existence, the only time she would ever surrounded by people who truly loved her.

Unfortunately, her stories are private now, part of a bigger secret that would give her away. Even if she did become close to new people, what could she reveal about herself? Not much. She would have to build a lie and keep it up. Friendships built on lies didn’t seem worth the trouble.

It’s why she thinks about Jon so much, he’s a reminder of the past that pointed out the holes she had been willfully blind to in her new life.

Perhaps it _is_ safe for her now to step further out into the world, just enough to find someone, anyone she could call a friend. Dany tries a few times, but she finds that she’s just too wary. Her trust had been terribly betrayed time more times than not. She hadn’t considered just how irreparable it actually was until she tried to find someone new to give it to.

Women looked at her with mistrust, probably justified since she’d been going out of her way to avoid people for nearly a year. They knew her as a quiet woman shrouded in a scarf, avoiding meeting peoples’ eyes and keeping to herself. Despite that, she made a few attempts, some were mean, and others were suspiciously nice. The men were no better, leering at her enough to make her avoid trying altogether. She had no patience for it, especially when she had known so many good, honorable men before.

She shed a tear or two one night, realizing that even in the place she calls home now didn’t seem to have people who would welcome her.

Briefly, she considers writing to Daario. He would come to her without question and be the friend she needed. However, even with him she knows she would have to have her guard up. He leered too, and in their time together he’d grown comfortable since she’d allowed it. It would be a tedious task to remind him every day, one she didn’t want to take up.

Dany wants to find Grey Worm even more. She knows a few places he could have left to, but she stops herself. It would be selfish, he deserved whatever peace he could find. If anything, he deserved it more than she did. She didn’t want to be there to serve as a reminder of what he’d lost because she failed to protect Missandei.

So of course, her thoughts go to Jon, finding him the near perfect answer to her loneliness. He would be a great friend. He would listen, he would talk to her and make her laugh, he wouldn’t overstep. But the idea of putting her trust in him makes her feel unsettled and admittedly a little weak. Forgiveness was easy when she’d seen his remorse, but she was right in saying that they could never go back. Distance is safe for the both of them, even if her curiosity poked at her insistently to see how he’s faring.

She shakes her head, pushes the distracting thoughts from her mind for the tenth time that day. 

She focuses on the task at hand, pulling the weeds along the perimeter of the brick walls encircling her home.

It’s a lovely day, warm but with a cooling breeze. Despite everything, Dany is untroubled today. She doesn’t teach, deciding to take the day for herself and instead giving her children tasks to complete and present to her when they come back. She smiles thinking of how proud their parents will be when they see how much they’ve learned. She slept late, rising long after the sun had, feeling well rested and relaxed. No dreams plagued her the night before, nor did any wistful dreams. The nothingness was a welcome surprise.

Even the silence feels more peaceful today, the distant sounds of life just enough to keep her from feeling alone.

Her fingers ache a little, but it only makes her pull harder, as if daring the roots to defy her. It’s tedious, and she knows some will inevitably grow back, but she can’t get any worse at it. Eventually they would stop growing and messing up her pretty picture and she would know that she won.

After the weeds, she tends to the plants, saddened to see that a few did not survive the cool nights, while the others that had. She pulls all the pots closer to the paved path, where there isn’t a chance they’ll be shaded by taller trees as the sun moved across the sky. She cuts the overgrown vines along tall walls around her home as well, deciding when she arrived that she liked the look of them. They grow fast though, just as fast as the weeds, and she has to be diligent in maintaining them or they’ll start to look unkept.

When she’s finished, it’s the middle of the afternoon, and she goes inside to start her bath. She’s beyond grateful that she’s fortunate enough to have the water from the sweetwater river piped into her home. She washes all the dirt and sweat from her body, lazing about in her copper tub until the water turns cold.

Afterwards, she eats her lunch outside.

She lays out a blanket, picking at her easy meal of cheese, bread, and fruit, her want of companionship all but forgotten.

Dany smiles to herself, closing her eyes and basking in the heat of the sun.

She’s close to falling asleep when she hears something hit the bars of the gate. He eyes snap open, and disappointment is the first thing she feels when she sees the source of the noise.

Ghost is at the gate, sitting right in front of it, looking at her expectantly.

She sighs, happy to see the direwolf, but still disheartened that Jon didn’t keep his word.

Dany rises from her spot, quickly packing away the rest of the food before going to let him in.

But she realizes Ghost is alone and she’s quick to guess what’s actually happened. He looks completely unbothered, his tail swaying happily when she lets him in.

She laughs, the disappointment gone in moments. “What are you doing here?” she asks as she pets behind his ears. “He’s going to be worried about you.”

Dany takes him inside, the sight of him settling comfortably on the floor only bettering her happy mood.

To her annoyance, a girlish excitement stirs in her belly, and she’s honest with herself enough to acknowledge why. She’d probably see Jon when the sun goes down. She can picture it now, him stumbling over apologies and shouldering an absurd amount of guilt over something that clearly isn’t his doing.

Dany follows Ghost, settling down into a chair in front of him. She passes the time by writing up lessons. It’s a time-consuming task, thinking of assignments for thirteen children of varying ages and capabilities.

Soon enough, the sun dips below to walls outside, and she has to light the candles.

She finishes off her lunch from earlier, she tidies up her home, sweeping up invisible dust and dirt from the floors, wiping down clean surfaces, changing the linens on her bed.

When there is nothing left to do, she realizes just how late it is, and starts to wonder if he would come at all.

Another hour passes and she starts to drift to sleep in the chair.

 _He isn’t coming,_ she eventually concludes. She can’t decide if she’s disappointed or pleased.

\---------------

Ghost lifts his head, looking at her and then whipping his head around to the door.

She smiles at her quiet companion, still amused that he acts like an everyday house pet when he’s here.

Having him here makes her miss Drogon terribly. She sees her son on occasion, mostly when her spirits are lower than usual. He’ll fly across the night sky, just to let her know he’s there, she thinks.

It’s enough to get her by, but sometimes she longs to abandon everything she has now for an open field where she can be Daenerys Targaryen again, and she can call to her son without fear of him being spotted.

When she doesn’t move, Ghost pushes himself up a bit dramatically, reminding her that now isn’t the time to sit and reflect.

She follows him, and he slips through the door before she can open it fully.

Dany is surprised it’s taken Jon three days to come here. She wonders why.

She considers staying inside, knowing Jon wouldn’t be bold enough to bother her and leave without any trouble, but she finds herself stepping out anyway.

When she stops on front of the gate, she doesn’t say a word, instead she waits to see what he’ll say first.

She gets a better look at him lingering awkwardly on the other side. He’s dressed differently, she notices right away, even in the pale moonlight. The colors of his clothes are still quiet and unassuming, but it’s nice to see him in something than that ugly brown gambeson. The faded navy looks lovely against his skin, brings out the pink in his cheeks. His hair is still gathered in a bun, his beard neatly kept, but was pleases her most is that his eyes don’t look nearly as sad as they did when she last saw him.

“I was hoping he’d come back on his own,” he says shyly. “Or you would turn him out on the streets, so he’d have to come back.”

“I would never do that to him,” she smiles at him, hoping to soothe his apprehension. She opens the gate, stepping to the side so he could come in. “Did you know he would be here?”

“Only after the first day,” he replies, glancing at the gate. He hesitates, but eventually takes a small step forward, just inside. “It wasn’t hard to guess, though. I—thank you, again. I’ll be sure to keep a closer eye on him.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” she waves off.

“Um,” he shuffles around, reaching for a coin purse tied at his belt. He digs around, pulling out several iron coins, holding them out to her. “Here, to replace what he’s eaten.”

She considers taking it, just to satisfy him, but pauses. “Can you spare it?” She didn’t want him to go without anything when he didn’t need to.

“Of course,” he says. “My post pays well enough. It’s what I would have spent if he was with me.”

“Post?”

“Yes, um,” his cheeks flush. “City Watch.”

Not what she expected, but it made sense.

“No luck with the swordsmen, then?”

Amusement flashes briefly in his eyes, brightening the lovely dark color. “Not exactly, no, but they don’t mind sparring with me when I’m off duty.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

He offers a quick smile in return before looking down, the coins still in his palm. He offers them again. “Please, I insist.”

She takes it without question and his fingers brush against hers. The touch makes them both pull back hastily.

Jon looks at her, and she can _see_ it right on his face, the longing. She knows he won’t do anything about it. 

“Ghost,” he says, tearing his eyes from hers. “Time to go, boy.”

She looks down too, smiling at Ghost as he follows Jon.

Before he leaves, she feels the need to say something, just to let him know that she cares more than she lets on. “I’m proud of you, Jon.”

To her relief, he doesn’t seem to take her praise as one offered in pity. If anything, it’s exactly what he needs to hear. “It’s good to see you, Daenerys.”

 _It’s good to see you, too,_ she thinks witfully as he leaves.

\-------------

Two weeks later she’s walking the streets, shopping for her week ahead.

It felt odd at first to only be concerned about her own well-being. Buying one or two apples, or a small bag of flour when she once had to ensure that thousands of people were properly fed. Although she’ll occasionally make a basket of treats for her students, it’s nowhere near the same. If she’s honest with herself, she misses the stress of it. She loved being the person her people relied on and looked to for guidance. She liked being their hope. She still didn’t understand how others saw it as a flaw, a hunger for power.

Daenerys has a generous amount left of what Kinvara gave her, but she’s frugal with it. She doesn’t demand any money from the families of the children. They give her what they can as a thanks, whether it’s a few spare coins or something they can make her in their respective trades. She gets leftover bread from the bakers, fabrics from the dressmaker, even a lovely vase from the potter. She always takes it without a fuss because it’s one less thing she needs to worry about.

If she hadn’t known what it was like to live on the streets already, she might have missed the luxuries afforded to her as a queen. But her life now was somewhere between the splendor of the Great Pyramid of Meereen and the roughness of her time as a Khaleesi. Vastly different from both, but she had no reason to complain.

Sometimes she would ration her food for a week or two just to buy something nice for herself, something that added nothing to her life except a small, brief delight. She has a respectable collection of books already, her plants that she buys just so she has something to take care of, a few dresses of fine silk that she would never wear outside her home, but they made her feel like she was still who she used to be, respected and admired.

Today she’s only buying what she needs, smiling at the vendors she sees once every few days. They were friendly, most of them, but she kept things impersonal. She reminds herself to think of lies she could tell them, construct an entire life that she never lived in her head just to make the little lies more believable. It was beginning to drain her to dodge their questions when they tried to get something as simple as her name. She should pick one soon. She couldn’t be nameless for the rest of her life, but her name had so much power, so much history in it that she didn’t want it gone just yet.

Stepping into the butcher shop, she comes to an abrupt stop, not expecting the sight in front of her. Jon is here, talking to the man at the counter, pointing at the large cuts hanging from the meat hooks. She knows its him immediately. If his dark curls didn’t give him away, the familiar sword at his hip would have.

A second man, who’s hacking away at a carcass, pauses his actions to address her. “I’ll be a minute, miss,” he says. He then gestures in Jon’s direction. “This lad’s order takes some time.”

Before she can say anything, Jon turns around, his mouth falling open in surprise when he sees her.

“Hello,” she says with a stiff nod.

“I—sorry, I didn’t know you came here,” he says is a rush. Ignoring her look of confusion, he turns back to the butcher. “I’ll come back later, Joran.”

Jon still looks flustered when he turns to face her again, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

Before she can say anything to pacify his anxiety, he walks swiftly pass her, ducking his head. Guilt builds in her belly and she moves quick to soothe it.

Dany stops him right outside the shop, catching his arm in a tight grip. “Jon, it’s alright.”

He slows to a stop, sighing in defeat when he looks at her. “It’s not. I told you that you didn’t have to see me.”

“Braavos is a large city, but we’re bound to run into one another. That isn’t your fault.”

“I want to make this easy for you, Daenerys,” he says in a whisper, his eyes darting around for prying eyes.

“That’s not you’re place,” she replies. “I can take care of myself and seeing you isn’t a hardship for me,” she pauses, thinking she may have misunderstood his abrupt exit. “Unless it is for you?”

She wants to make this easy for him, too.

He shakes his head. “Seeing you isn’t a hardship.”

His answer delights her. _Because he’s healing,_ she tells herself.

“You don’t have to leave because I’m here,” she says firmly. “Please, finish your business with the butcher or I’ll feel terrible for it the rest of the day.”

Her teasing tone earns her a shy smile.

He begins to walk back, gesturing for her to go in first. “I must warn you; he wasn’t wrong. It’s large order.”

“Cooking yourself a feast?”

“Ghost is more trouble than he’s worth,” he answers. He walks back up to the counter, saying a few words to the man before moving to stand beside her. “But if I take the bones as well as the meat, it keeps him entertained a little longer.”

She wants to ask him how Ghost is doing, if Jon’s found a way to tire him out, where they’re living and if he’s happy, but she also doesn’t want to pry.

“And you?” he asks tentatively. “No students today?”

“No. Not today.”

He nods, and then shifts on his feet, looking around the room as if some other person will come in and break the tension.

It makes her a bit sad really, how they’re behaving like strangers to one another.

Minutes later, the strained bubble is burst when his own order is ready. The call of his name is an instant savior for him, the relief plain in his eyes.

“Jon,” she starts suddenly, apprehensive but determined. “I’m making a roast for supper. Well, trying to anyway. I…you can come, if you’d like.”

The timidness in her voice makes her wince.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, shaking his head.

“I want to,” she with an air of resignation. “And I could use the company.”

She expects to feel humiliation, an internal scolding for being weak and giving in first, but it never comes. When he accepts her invitation, and promises to see her later that day, and she lets herself to be happy about it.

It’s only supper, after all. One supper to see if he’s alright and nothing more. 

\---------------

Jon knew it was a bad idea when he agreed, and he knew it as he walked excitedly to her home later that evening. He knew his criticisms of his mistakes and shortcomings would only echo louder in his head when he left, calling him stupid for not being what she needed in Westeros.

He knew all of it and yet it wouldn’t stop him from seeing her.

Jon feels like a new person, different than when he first saw her here, different than two weeks before when he came to get his unruly direwolf.

He wouldn’t be so bold as to say it’s a rejuvenated confidence, but he suspects the small steps he’s taken to find his footing had everything to do with it. His failures felt more distant now that he’d layered them with some success.

It was Dany who pushed him in the direction of the water dancers, chance that introduced him to Belyrio, his new commander, and luck that gave him a chance to guard a city he knew nothing about.

Belyrio was watching the dancers, that day. Men of all ages, practicing and learning all while entertaining a crowd of onlookers. _Watching for men who don’t have the talent to make it a career but have enough skill to use it elsewhere,_ he said.

After watching them too, Jon decided he was in the latter category, his style of fighting too harsh and laborious to ever be considered dancing. Once Jon realized who Belyrio was, he worked up the nerve ask him outright for a position, any position that would pay.

Sizing him up, Belyrio thankfully decided he was worth something and told him to meet him in the training yards the following day.

For over a month now, Jon had been memorizing the layout of the city, learning what kind of people congregated where. To his relief, he found that Dany lived in the wealthier part of the city. She wasn’t on the richest street, but it was safer than most, and he slept better at night knowing it.

He learned where the danger was quickly, Belyrio throwing him on duty with a stoic, older man in the worst parts of the city. The man, Lazario, thought himself better than a guide to the city, and was a quiet, unnerving partner to have, but Jon discovered he was quite deadly when thrown into a dangerous predicament.

Their first night patrolling, Jon has hesitated in reacting immediately as he would have before, nervous to reprimand people that he knew nothing about. It cost him a bruised cheekbone from a drunk tavern patron and a punch to the gut from Lazario soon after. Jon had to steel his nerves after that.

From then on, he worked to prove his worth, to Lazario as well as to himself. He was once a commander, a king, a warden, he could be a city guard.

Finding somewhere suitable for him and Ghost to live took a little longer, but luck proved to be a friend to Jon again in introducing him to a fellow guard named Malen.

Malen had seen Ghost one night, when he and Jon ended their respective patrols in the tavern Jon lived above, and immediately suggested Jon live with him and his parents. Malen’s father was a jeweler, and as such, his shop was under the constant threat of thieves. They were a well-off family, employing a personal guard, but Malen believed Ghost would be an even better deterrent if he guarded the space. 

Jon was going to turn down the offer, not liking the idea of using Ghost as a guard dog, but once he saw the house and adjoining shop, he knew he would be a fool to turn it down. In between the shop and the family’s home was a courtyard, much like Daenerys’ gated garden, and the room he was offered was more than enough space for him. Jon didn’t feel so guilty leaving Ghost on his own for hours with the space he was able to roam, however limited it was.

The rent was reasonable, the price low since Ghost kept watch of their shop when the paid guard wasn’t on duty. Malen’s parents were kind, older folk who thankfully didn’t pry into Jon’s past, why he was there or why he had a creature like Ghost with him. Malen talked enough for the both of them, and Jon was content to listen.

Jon knows one day he would have to return to Westeros, to take Ghost to the true North. The wolf is happy enough to be lying about under the sun, but Jon knows he misses the cold, the snow, the woods to hunt and run in. _Perhaps in a year or two,_ he thinks. He isn’t ready to go back just yet, not when he just found something to steady him.

When he isn’t on duty, Jon spars with anyone who would indulge him, the pride in him growing with every man he bested. He likes being in the training yard. Even on a different continent, the wooden, blunt swords and practice shields were a familiar, welcome sight.

Sitting here in Daenerys’ home for the third time, Jon isn’t so lost.

He _is_ confused, though, unsure how receive her extended kindness or how to react to it. It feels like a test. 

They’d just finished super, a quiet affair, though not painfully so. He was braced for a moment of confrontation that never came, instead he was overwhelmed by her hospitality. Sensing his nerves, she led most of the conversation, asking him anything she could about his duties, his home, Ghost.

The meal she cooked was savory and rich, better than anything he’d had in weeks, and he knew she must have started preparing it the moment she got home. He thanked her at least three times as they ate.

The ease of it all felt undeserved, especially with her, but he relished in it.

“You’ve been in Braavos this whole time?” he asks as he helps her clean the kitchen.

He’s washing up the dishes they used as she stores away the spices on shelves.

“No, actually,” she answers. “Drogon took me to Volantis, to the Temple of the Lord of Light. He knew I’d be safe there.”

“Were you?”

“Yes. They helped me in the beginning. Taught me the basics of cooking, how to fight—”

“Fight?” he interrupts, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Not _well_ , but enough to defend myself.”

“What’s your weapon of choice?” He inquired with interest. Though she was more powerful than any man he knew, the sight of her on a dragon forever ingrained in his head, he couldn’t picture her yielding anything in her hands. “Sword? Spear? Bow?”

She smiles. “Dagger.”

“Dagger?” he echoes, surprised. _She still has it._

“Mmhmm,” she hums in confirmation. “Thankfully, I haven’t had to use it but…I do feel safer when I have it.”

Pride flushes through him. “Good.”

“And you?” she asks in return. “I take it you weren’t successful in water dancing?”

Jon feels comfortable enough to laugh. “Didn’t even make an attempt. Luckily for me, Commander Belyrio thought I was worth something.”

Next to him, he can see her movements falter, before she sets down the cleaning rag and turns, leaning against the counter next to him.

He feels her eyes on him, but he keeps his own focused on his task.

“I didn’t know what to expect when you decided to stay,” she says softly. “I was scared for you. We’ve both changed since…everything, but I don’t think I’d even seen anyone as defeated as you. I was worried you’d be just as lost here as you were in Westeros, if not more so.”

“I thought I would be, too,” he replies. “But I knew that it couldn’t be any worse.”

“Do you still think it was a good decision to stay?”

Jon knows his answer immediately. “Best decision I’ve made in a long time.”

“I think so, too,” she murmurs, before moving to tidy up the table.

He tries not to linger on her reply, but of course he fails, and he again feels like their exchanges are a test. He knows what he wants to say, to do, but he doesn’t think any of it is the answer she’s looking for.

When they’re done, the overall pleasantness of his visit runs its course, and all that’s left are the unspoken words that neither of them will say.

Instead of suffering the embarrassment of being asked to leave, he offers it first, and the relief on her face tells him it’s the right thing to do.

Dany thanks him softly for helping her with the dishes and leads him to the front door.

“You’ve cooked for me twice now,” he says suddenly. He doesn’t give himself time to argue against the daring move. “I think it’s only fair I return the favor.”

Hope tries to root itself in his heart, he can feel the buzz of it in his veins, but the apprehension in her eyes warns him that it’s pointless. “Jon…” she warns weakly. _We can’t do this._

“I know,” he says without doubt. “But I’m asking anyway.”

She sighs, her shoulders falling in defeat. Before his embarrassment sets in, a ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

Jon grows more confident in this small risk, fighting the immediate desire to retreat somehow and save himself from hurt. “Good. I’m nowhere near as good as you but I think I could manage something.”

He earns another smile, this one more relaxed. “Bring Ghost, I miss him.”

“He misses you, too.”

They both grow shy with the silence that follows. He doesn’t know if he should stare as he is, but he can’t help it. She hasn’t looked at him without wariness in so long. He never thought she would again. He finally averts his eyes when he sees the knowing glint in hers, but he feels no shame for being caught.

 _Same time next week_ , they agree, and then Jon hastily bids her goodnight. A boyish excitement settles into his bones, a buzz of anticipation at the opportunity to see her again. It feels like innocent, pure elation. He wonders if this is how it would have been if Robert’s Rebellion had never happened, if he’d had the chance to earn her affections when they were young and innocent instead of older and jaded.

He also wonders if he’s overreaching. Surely there would be a point when she stopped him, warned him more firmly to put an end to it, but for now he’s happy to dance along the edge of it, to be as close as she allowed him to be.

\---------------

Jon leaves well into the night, bidding her goodnight with an easy wave. He offers to get the ingredients for their next meal.

It’s been over just over a moon since his first offer, one she’s still surprised he made, and he’s been back four more times. 

She smiles to herself, recalling his first attempt in her kitchen. He’d been nervous and she spent much of the evening trying to make herself scarce while he tentatively grabbed at spices and herbs. It was a strange situation for them both. She began to grow concerned when nearly an hour had passed and she’d scarcely heard any noise coming from her kitchen, but he finally called to her, his voice resigned. He wasn’t proud of what he’d made, and while she silently agreed that he’d been _too_ generous with the salt and that the vegetables were undercooked, she complimented it anyway.

 _Next time, cut the potatoes smaller so they’ll soften faster,_ is all she said. He picked up on her words, nodding at her silent offer with more decisiveness that he’d had in a while.

She waited until after he’d gone to think on what she’d done, to consider that perhaps it was a bad idea, but it didn’t trouble her in the slightest. She’d felt proud of herself, actually, her nerves somewhat calmed when she realizes that the dynamic between them has shifted so drastically. She didn’t feel superior to him, or stronger, but she wasn’t looking to him for reassurance, she wasn’t wanting anything other than his friendship. If she never saw him again, she would not retreat into herself like before.

After their second supper, she _does_ consider the idea that if they continued, it would only be detrimental to him. She wants him to heal like she has, to be able to exist on his own and be happy with only himself. It’s a lonely thought, but she knows from experience that it’s survivable. It could even be pleasant, she came to find, once she’d overcome all those heavy, sorrowful thoughts.

 _This next time will be the last,_ she told herself as she readied for bed. 

But she changed her mind again. Jon knew more than her what was going on in his head, and she couldn’t act as if she knew what was best for him. So, she invited him in again, and enjoyed every minute he was with her.

The first couple of times, she pulls them in the direction of lighter topics, things that would be easy to talk about, that wouldn’t lead them down uncomfortable paths. She hears about his duties as a guard, his friend Malen, and the room he rents from his family. She laughs when he tells her of Ghost’s new post, thinking of the dangerous direwolf sitting by and protecting necklaces and rings. She tells him about her students, each of them a vibrant character on their own, and how she hopes she’s able to find somewhere safe for Doraya to live.

She could see changes in him the longer he was with her. Minute changes, likely imperceptible to anyone but her, but they were there. His voice lost its guarded edge the more they talked, the nerves left him and gave way to a familiarity that she found she had missed. Even his actions, the way he walked into her home, the way he moved around her, were like ghosts of their past. The way he smiled, way he looked at her, she could tell he wasn’t plagued by their mistakes, at least not in those moments.

On the third night, they cooked together, and she walked him through preparing their apple tarts for dessert while she made the main dish. It was all so simple and easy as they moved around her small kitchen together. If anyone were able to look through her window, they would never be able to guess the people that they used to be. She didn’t know if she liked that.

Tonight, though, she could see the cracks in their routine. At some point, they’d said all they could say about their day, and she didn’t know what to say next. There was nowhere to go except the past that was too dark to revisit, and the future that she thinks he hasn’t truly considered if he’d only just started to feel comfortable in his present. She found that she also didn’t want to talk about the future. This was her life now, students and gardens and peace, and she knows her future would entail much of the same, but she didn’t want to say it aloud.

She invited him back anyway because she wants to see him again. She liked having a small change to look forward too, something exciting to disturb the students and gardens and peace.

Perhaps they should talk about it, _reflect_ without feeling defensive or guilty and still keep in mind that they’re both better for it. She thinks _she’s_ better anyway, but she doesn’t know if he feels the same.

Daenerys was the first to give in, near the end of their meal when the quiet become overbearing, begrudgingly inquiring into the whereabouts of his younger sister. She knew of Bran and Sansa’s standing, but he never mentioned Arya. At first, she though it was a mistake to ask, she could see him start to fold into himself, but he stopped, settling instead on impassiveness. _Sailing the world,_ is all he said. To her, it sounded like he was trying not to care, but she didn’t say anything more about it.

She asked about Tyrion. When the rumors first flooded Essos, she heard that he’d become Bran’s Hand. It infuriated her to know that his treasons and betrayals had been rewarded and more privately, it hurt her to know that he did not grieve for her at all, not as his queen and not as a friend.

Jon confirmed the rumors for her, told her how Tyrion had visited his cell and made attempts to reassure Jon that her death was the only and _right_ path to take. She wishes she could meet with him again just to see the look of shock on his face. 

Bran knows that’s she’s alive, he said, but Daenerys already knew that, too. Kinvara told her it was a possibility that the strange, Three-Eyed Raven might be aware of her whereabouts, and Daenerys took it as a given fact. She was always prepared for the possibility of assassins, and she was ready to take whatever measures were necessary to stop any threats to her life. Jon didn’t flinch at the implications when she told him as much.

Besides that, he didn’t know much about what was happening in Westeros. She avoided listening for news all together, not that the people in Essos cared enough to talk about it. Part of her _was_ curious, though, to see how Bran acted as king, whether he did what she would have done or kept to the familiar practice of simply maintaining peace as other kings had done before him. Bran didn’t strike her as a revolutionary, as anyone who would devote more that was asked of them. Being from the North, she doesn’t think he would even consider implementing newer, controversial policies and ideas if the old ones suited him just fine. She would have been different. She wonders if Jon would have been different.

The days following their suppers always left Dany feeling strange. She found herself thinking of them too much. Their new dynamic has a novelty to it that appeals to her. She can sometimes get by with thinking of him as someone new, someone that did not share or know of her failures in Westeros, but it never lasts. He’ll do something, say something in his gruff, northern inflection and she’s thrown back into what made him so intriguing to her.

He’s even more so now, if she’s honest, because every time she sees him, he’s different. It’s not as simple as moving on from the people who disappointed him, but she can tell that the heaviness is leaving him, or he’s just learning to carrying it better.

Daenerys knows exactly where her thoughts will lead her if she lets them. She knew the moment she accepted his offer after that first night, perhaps even when she made hers. She won’t presume to know what Jon is thinking, but she can see it sometimes in the brief moments he lets it slip. But she has thoughts like that too, and that’s all they are. Thoughts. Memories. She likes that she can think of them fondly now but having him near makes the fondness want to turn wishful.

Things return to normal eventually, and she reestablishes the parameters of their friendship, redraws the line that she’s set between them. She busies herself with her students and her hobbies, and then just as she begins to grow restless, he comes back and alleviates it.

It’s foolish, but she does it anyway. She won’t let him burrow his way into her heart like she did before. However, she wonders if the effort is pointless.

\---------------

Jon’s bored, waiting impatiently for the sun to rise and his shift to end. Even after months, Lazario hasn’t become a pleasant patrol partner. He often insists on walking certain streets alone, commanding Jon to keep an eye on a different part of their designated neighborhood. If Lazario is actually patrolling or not, Jon doesn’t care to find out, he prefers to be on his own anyway.

The nights are pleasantly cool, just enough to balance out the hot days. He hasn’t memorized the lay of the city completely, but he knows it well enough to get by. As much as he enjoys the quiet nights in the safer neighborhoods, he prefers the busier ones of breaking up tavern fights and preventing robberies in the livelier streets. Even if they don’t jail anyone, the drunken people at least offer some entertainment.

People like that used to bother him before he came to Essos, they annoyed him to no end with their intoxicated tirades while he sat and stressed about an enemy that no one else believed in. _Brooding,_ people called it, and he reckons he still does it from time to time, but he has no reason to now. The enemy was gone, and the people here never heard a whisper of it. He wants to be angry that they never carried the weight of dread that he did, but instead he’s glad for them. He almost feels proud that he had a part to play in it. They still bother him, but not as they did before. Instead, he envies how untroubled they are, how easy joy seems to come to them.

Jon finds the job relatively simple, the encounters with robbers, or drunkards, or violent perpetrators not nearly as daunting at the threats of death he’d faced before. To his surprise, he enjoyed the authority of it. He supposed he grew comfortable with it before.

When he wasn’t on duty, he mainly kept to his bedroom, occasionally venturing out to explore the city in the daylight. It isn’t perfect, no city ever is. As much as he can appreciate the brightness and liveliness, he can’t ignore the people begging on the streets or living in squalor. He gives what he can spare, earning him looks of gratitude from the recipients and disdain from the onlookers, but he pays them no mind. He wishes he could do more. Giving them a coin or two when he could does nothing to change their lives, it only ensures that they eat that day. It isn’t enough, and Jon sometimes felt frustratingly stuck in a position that doesn’t give him the capability to do more. He likes the anonymity, but he struggles being voiceless.

Jon wasn’t unhappy in Braavos. He didn’t find any reason to be. The absence of constant worries is still foreign to him, he didn’t wake up tired and he didn’t fall asleep dreading what the next day would bring. His responsibilities were minimal, only having to worry about himself and Ghost, yet he always felt like he was forgetting something, like he was leaving something unattended and he would only remember when it was too late. He had worked towards this reward of being well-rested and free, yet accepting it is taking longer that he thought it would.

When he’s finally freed from duty that morning, he’s exhausted, ready to retire for the next few hours before his supper with Dany.

He’s done well recently, he thinks, packing her away into a compartment so she didn’t distract him every hour of everyday. It was an effort, but he was successful for the most part. He swore he would make it easy for her, and so he made the same promise to himself after he’d gotten her acceptance in his plan.

In the beginning, it was easy. He had so much to do, so many things to complete just to ensure that he didn’t end up like the people living on the streets. Once that was done, though, it got bit harder. When he isn’t on duty, after he’s eaten and bathed and made sure Ghost was content, he doesn’t have much to occupy his mind. In the lulls in between, he wonders what she’s doing. He allowed it for a while, but the curiosity was counterproductive in the end. Instead, he does what she says, and tries to forgive himself for his mistakes.

In that, he’d had more time to think over the way things unfolded in Winterfell, where things had gone so terribly wrong. The resentment towards his family continues to leave a bitter, simmering taste on his tongue. It isn’t real anger, or particularly strong really, but it’s there. It’s difficult to forgive them, pointless when he knows they aren’t asking for forgiveness. He doubts Sansa regrets anything she did _. It was all for the North,_ he imagined her saying, but really, it was all for her. The more he thought of Arya, the more he was simply confused. He wonders if he’d only told her how he felt about Dany, if she trusted his judgment, she might have tried harder to see her as an ally, as a friend. He didn’t understand why she was so determined to mistrust a queen who protected their home. Bran was the king of Westeros, but that brought him no feeling at all, it was simply a fact. He found himself comparing Bran to Daenerys, finding his brother lacking in everything that could make a king great, memorable. What would the songs say about his brother? What stories would he inspire? Jon couldn’t imagine any. Would Bran be a good king, a great one? The only word that came to Jon’s mind was _adequate._

Westeros was no longer a home to him and yet he pondered on its future because he felt like he should. Perhaps it’s because he knows how it could have been, the sort of monarch they would have had. The guilt rolls in, but he can control it now, sort through it so he only feels his own. As much as it’s an exercise in frustration, it’s also a cathartic distraction, and one he knows is better for him than just thinking about her and what he’d lost.

Today, he doesn’t mind letting his thoughts wander to her. He allows himself to on the days he’s going to see her.

Jon doesn’t know what it is they’re doing, exactly, but he tries not to name it. He’s told himself time and time again to let her set the boundaries and mind them carefully, yet it’s almost as if she’s told herself the same. They dance around each other until one of them moves forward, and most of the time it’s him. Only once or twice has he felt like a fool, feeling her lean away or close off when he takes a risk without much thought, but she doesn’t hold it against him, and she never brings it up again. He thinks, hopes really, that she’s unsure too.

He’s cooking this time, a feat he’s still nervous about, despite the fact that she never says a negative word about his efforts.

Jon smiles thinking about. She’s a decent liar, but he can still tell. She eats slower when it’s something he’s made. She pours herself more water when he’s over seasoned something, or more wine when it’s bland. He teased her for it once, and she only laughed, hiding her blushing cheeks behind her cup.

After a brief nap, he eats a quick meal with Malen, enduring his friend’s slight teasing when he mentions he’s going to join a friend for supper.

“Is it that woman _again_?” he asks with a smirk. “You know, I’ve never actually seen her. I think you might be lying to me.”

Jon rolls his eyes, hurrying to finish his meal so he can go buy a few things before he sees her.

Malen leans in, lowering his voice. “If you’re going to the Satin Palace, there’s no shame in it. I know you Westerosi are a lot more prudish—”

“I’m not going to a brothel,” he says, feigning annoyance and trying to fight a smile. “And it doesn’t matter if you’ve seen her, you’ve no reason to know anything about her. She’s only a friend.”

“Right,” Malen says with a wave of his hand. “A friend you knew in Westeros, I know. A friend that came here long before you did, from what you told me, yet you’ve ended up in the same city, joining her for _late_ suppers nearly every week.”

Jon shakes his head, growing a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “You have it right, Malen. A _friend_.”

He picks up on the warning in Jon’s tone and raises his hands in defeat before going back to his food. “You couldn’t afford any of the girls there, anyway,” he mumbles.

Jon doesn’t respond, clearing his plate and washing up after himself. He already feels too dependent on the family, not quite as self-supporting as he wants to be. He makes the effort to leave no traces himself in their home. Even the bedroom he sleeps in is void of any personal items, all of his belonging stuffed into a small chest. He washes his own clothes every few days, makes up his bed every morning, buys his own food and makes it when he can, all in an effort to make himself less of a burden on them. And, he knows if he doesn’t, Malen’s well-intentioned mother would do it all for him. She’s already gotten him to relent a few times, insisting Jon eats with the family or offering to prepare his supper along with theirs. The practice of it is unfamiliar to him, uncomfortable. As welcoming as they are, he can’t bring himself to settle in. The arrangement between them could very well carry on for years, but he prefers to think of it as temporary.

It’s the middle of the day when he leaves the family’s home, a list of errands planned in his head to pass the time.

\---------------

“Have you practiced that?” she asks over his shoulder. He can hear the smile in her voice.

He stays focused, a little nervous now that he knows she’s watching so closely, but he doesn’t let it falter movements. The slices are proportional and the perfect width. “Aye, had to impress you somehow.”

He has practiced. When Malen’s mother is cooking, he sometimes works on his own beside her, watching her closely and learning her techniques. She’s a willing teacher as well, very particular in the way she prepares her food, which he’s grateful for.

“It’s paid off,” she says casually. “I’m impressed.”

She goes back to the table, the chair sliding across the floor as she sits back down. He flushes under her praise, but he pretends otherwise and so does she. Jon appreciates that about her, that she acknowledges his efforts without sounding patronizing, and that she lets him carry on without poking at him any further. Receiving praise has always felt unnatural to him, not matter how much a deeper part of him wanted it, but with Dany it only makes him stand a bit taller. He supposes she’s the only person he wants to impress anymore, the only person whose respect he craves.

Behind him, he hears her going back to scratching across papers, writing up her lessons and reading over the work her students had done that day.

The first few times he came, she did it in the other room, allowing him to panic and cook in private, but she followed him into the kitchen today, parchments in her hand, telling him she was going to sit at the table.

He doesn’t mind it. He likes having her close, and it allows him more time with her.

In between the scratches of her quick writing, the sound of the knife’s blade hits the air, gentle and slow. They’re both quiet and occupied by their separate tasks, there is no sense of urgency or dread. It’s all very domestic. It’s strange and exhilarating to him.

These are the happiest moments of his life here. He wonders if they make her day better too, if it’s something she looks forward. If he were more confident in what her answer would be, he would ask.

Jon tries to guess what she _would_ say. He feels very attuned to her, able to pick up on the way she opens up to him, or how she avoids looking at him when she’s uncomfortable. He can’t quite tell if it’s him entirely that causes the discomfort, or herself as well. He can see conflict in her eyes, clear as day. She seems hesitant to acknowledge it, so he can only surmise that she doesn’t want to feel whatever it is she’s feeling. That’s enough to keep him quiet, but it also encourages him to continue what he _is_ doing, reaching out little by little and hoping one day she’ll finally reach back.

He wants that, if she’d have him.

“Have you had any luck with Doraya?” he asks. Dany’s concern for the little girl became his as well, the more he learned about her.

“Some,” she answers with a huff. “She’s young, people don’t think she’s old enough or skilled enough to be an apprentice. And as soon as they hear she’s an orphan, they think she’ll only steal from them. A few didn’t outright decline, so maybe I’ll have luck with them if I try again.”

“What if she volunteered? Without pay, during the hours she would normally be with you. That way, they can see that she’s capable of doing fair work for fair pay?”

“Hmmm, I hadn’t thought about that,” she says with a curious tone. “I’m not so confident people would even consent, though. They don’t really trust me either, not that I blame them. And I can’t forget that she’s only a young girl… _I_ need to trust them too.”

He stops, turns around. “I could help, if you’d like,” he offers. He wouldn’t otherwise, but he knows she worries about it more than she lets on.

“How?”

He shrugs. “Whatever you need.”

He sees the conflict in her eyes again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She goes back to writing, he goes back to cooking.

Nearly half an hour later, the table is cleared of her papers and she’s setting down the plates while he places the dishes in the center.

He frantically tries to think of things to say when they finally sit, not wanting to waste the time with silence. But he’s already heard about her day and she, his. It was an unspoken agreement not to speak of the past, but when he inquiries about her plans for the future, or even next week, she gives him vague, stilted answers.

He does have other questions, questions he never knew how to approach before, but now he thinks there’s no reason to delay them.

She compliments the taste of the meal, but he thinks the basil is overwhelming the other spices. He does agree with her though, that the meat is evenly cooked, impressively for him. He’s proud that his efforts seem to be yielding the results he wants. 

“It’s my turn, next,” she says in warning. “No arguing.”

He smiles. “You don’t need to. I provide the food and you provide the company. It’s more than a fair trade.”

She rolls her eyes at his compliment, but her cheeks flush pink. _It’s only the wine._ “I said no arguing. And I want to.”

Jon is warmed by her insistence. He knows he isn’t masking his emotions well, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

He goes back to eating, trying to find the right words for his questions. Knowing her, she would understand his nervousness.

“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” she asks, her tone amused and slightly worried.

He clears his throat. “Before…you said you could tell me about him. If I’d asked.”

Dany understands right away, her facing growing serious as she sets down her fork. She doesn’t ask why he suddenly wants answers, she only seeks to help him. “I don’t know much more than you do,” she admits. “Only what people have told me.”

He figured as much, but still…he only knows of the bad things, the evil things he did that were taught to all Northern children, and even those things he now understands may have been untrue or told to him with apparent bias. He knows of the tourney…of how he gave the crown of winter roses to his mother. A rather romantic action for someone reviled in the North, but he was he was also wed to another woman, a father to young children. His father… _Rhaegar_ was nothing but a dark silhouette to him, and Jon didn’t know what truths to color it with. He could picture hair, the color of Dany’s. Perhaps even her eyes, but nothing else. He didn’t know if his father was _good_ …If he was admirable like Ned Stark. His character wasn’t something he would ever really know.

“My mother was said to be a wild spirit. Stubborn and strong-willed. She wouldn’t have disappeared without a noise unless it’s what she wanted to do,” he explains, more to himself than Dany. “I believe—I _know_ , that she must have wanted to marry him.”

“I think she did,” Dany agrees softly. “Ser Barristan knew him best. He wouldn’t have lied to me about my brother. I can’t bring myself to believe Rhaegar took her against her will…he wouldn’t have taken the risk of having his marriage to Elia annulled for no reason.”

That part never failed to unsettle Jon’s stomach. “He knew the risk…he knew the danger it would bring his family and he still did it. How could he do that?” Aegon and Rhaenys. His brother and sister. Even if Rhaegar didn’t care for Elia as he should have, Jon couldn’t accept that he simply risked his own children’s safety for Lyanna. For him. “How could a good man do that?”

Dany looks at him, shame coloring her features. He wants to take her in his arms and sooth it away. The guilt was not hers; he doesn’t blame her for her brother’s action, he could never. “I don’t know. But a man in love could do many ill-advised things.”

Her words from weeks ago flood his mind. _Caught up. Idealistic._ He dismisses the thought. He and Dany were more than that. Or perhaps that’s where he and Rhaegar differed. Ned Stark was his father in every other sense of the word, and he raised Jon to be honorable and loyal, some might say to fault. Rhaegar chose love and Jon chose duty, but both of them loved someone they shouldn’t have. Of course, it’s all pointless speculation.

“Do you think he truly loved her?”

“I do,” she answers firmly. “And I think she loved him.”

He shakes his head. To know that his parents might have truly loved one another warmed his heart, but it didn’t make him feel like any less of a mistake. If he wasn’t Ned Stark’s bastard, he was the direct result of a love affair that started a war, that killed countless people. If they’d just stayed away from each other, Rhaegar and his family could still be alive…Rhaegar could be king and Daenerys would have never suffered as she did. Perhaps he was loved and wanted by his parents, but Jon couldn’t argue that his life was worth the misery it brought.

And yet he also couldn’t pass judgement on them so harshly because he wishes he’d done the same. The consequences of loving Daenerys might not have been as tragic, perhaps Rhaegar and Lyanna thought the same, but if he could go back, he would take the risk anyway.

“Don’t do that,” she chides, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Do what?”

“I know how you think, Jon, but you’re not to blame for their actions. It wasn’t you who killed Elia and their children, and it wasn’t you who started a war,” she looks down, lost in thought. “A war was inevitable, given the state of my father’s mind. If it wasn’t your parents’ actions, it would have been another thing. What happened over twenty years ago shouldn’t weigh so heavily on you.”

“Doesn’t it weigh on you?” he asks. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, if he wants her to agree with him or not.

“It did,” she says. “I used to think about it a lot. I can picture how different my life would have been…how I would have grown up in the Red Keep, or on Dragonstone. I might have married Aegon, might have been his queen after he was crowned,” she gives him a sad smile. “I used to be quite resentful about how _unfair_ it all was, but not so much anymore. I wouldn’t have had my dragons otherwise…millions of people could still be in chains,” Dany shrugs, taking a sip of her wine. “There’s no competition, really. I wouldn’t trade this life for that one.”

He believes her immediately, the certainty in her voice leaving him no room to question it. It makes him feel better, lighter. “Thank you,” he says instead, because he hears what she doesn’t say, the reassurance that his life isn’t a mistake, Rhaegar’s or Ned’s. “What was he like?”

Her eyes brighten with excitement, the innocent look of it telling him how much this meant to her too. He knows what she means now, about feeling alone in the world. Even if they were never anything more than this to each other, their relation is the only tether he had anymore, the only connection to his old life and new one and the one he never lived. His ties to his sibling felt stretched, weak, and perhaps even irreparable. They let go with ease and Daenerys didn’t.

“Ser Barristan was a close friend of his. He told me Rhaegar was a skilled fighter, but he didn’t enjoy killing,” She smiles at him, he feels his cheeks warm, the same memory flooding to his mind. “He much preferred singing.”

He knew about Rhaegar’s harp, but the image that comes to his mind still brings a smile to his face. “Was he any good?”

“He was,” she says. “He would disguise himself and go out into the streets in King’s Landing to sing to the people. Ser Barristan said he would earn a profit and give the money to orphanages or to other minstrels.” Jon can see it, strangely enough. He can understand it. Someone like him, quiet, humbled by the weight of a sword, understanding its terrible power and being admired for the skill of using it. He can imagine the quiet man wanting the joy of giving something to the people, offering something that didn’t lead to bloodshed. If he had such a talent and the opportunity, Jon would have wanted to do the same. “Although, Ser Barristan mentioned that Rhaegar once kept the money, and the pair of them got very, very drunk.”

He laughs. If there was one story like that, there were probably plenty more like it lost to history.

“Ser Barristan called him _the last dragon,_ ” she continues, a bit more subdued. “He idolized him, was loyal to him. And while I never knew Rhaegar, I knew Ser Barristan well. He wouldn’t give his loyalty to someone who wasn’t deserving of it.”

Judging by her tone, he can tell that’s the end of it. How ever little it is, it’s more than enough to him. He doesn’t want lose himself in a past he would never really know as much as try to understand the people who were his parents. He only wishes Ned has spoken more about his mother. He would never be fully satisfied, but it mattered very little now, he left it all behind like Daenerys did.

“I wonder what they would think of me…if they saw me now,” he says quietly. He feels like a scared child saying it aloud. Seeking any sort of validation was silly and unnecessary, but he finds himself doing it anyway, despite that they weren’t here to answer. “If they would be proud of who I am.”

“Why would you think they wouldn’t be?”

He shakes his head. “Look at me. Rhaegar thought he was dying for a prince. His last heir. And Lyanna—”

“That’s not all you were meant to be, Jon,” she sighs. “You’re their son and they loved you. I can’t tell you how they would have felt, and I won’t pretend to know, but I don’t think it’s fair to yourself to assume the worst.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s surprised she hasn’t gotten tired of his self-deprecation.

“Don’t be,” she assures patiently. “All you see is your own mistakes and it’s a hard habit to break.”

“I’m trying,” he offers weakly.

“I know you are,” she says. “And I’ll remind you if you need to hear it.”

When she says things like that, he can’t make sense of it. He doesn’t know if he’s dreaming up the promise he hears behind it or if she’s putting in there on purpose.

“Why do you bother with me at all?” he asks, half joking, half desperate for a closer look into her thoughts.

“Because you let me,” she answers after a beat. He can tell she’s holding back.

For the rest of the meal, they share whatever small details they can about their family. He learned that his sister had a black cat she named Balerion. She looked like her mother. Aegon was only a babe when he was murdered. Daenerys told him it was said that he took after Rhaegar in coloring. They didn’t speak of their deaths, they both knew the stories, but Jon’s heart aches for Elia and her children, the pain closer to his heart than all times he heard it before.

He recalls the few times Ned had mentioned Lyanna, trying to pull apart the vague stories and find something that was _real_ about his mother. Daenerys helps him, smiling when he ghosts over a detail, stopping him to say that it reminds her of him. Together they decide that Jon must have gotten his brooding nature from Rhaegar, because Lyanna was too vibrant to be prone to melancholy. She was a bit reckless, though, and Daenerys insists Jon is the same, if not worse.

They clean up, smiling over the closest things to memories that they have. It isn’t terribly sad, nor does it stir up any more feelings of guilt.

“Those flowers look lovely,” he mentions when she’s walking him out. From what he can tell under the moonlight, they’re pale pink. He didn’t see them there last week.

“They do, don’t they?” she says, admiring her own work. “I bought them a few days ago on a whim. It’s a miracle I haven’t killed them yet.”

Every time he comes, something is different. She says she’s not so good at gardening and he’s inclined to believe her. He’s witnessed the short lifespan of many flowers, though the greenery is always thriving.

It’s getting closer to the garden in his dream. The thought excites him, but it also fills him with fear.

He’s positive now that it wasn’t just a dream and he’s only waiting for the next part to come. He would bow out gracefully, of course, if it meant she would be happy, but as that possibility approaches, his sense of control begins to feel erratic. He thinks this thing between them is nearing the end of its course.

“Are you going to keep them there?” he asks. The two rose bushes are nestled into small ceramic pots.

“For now. They’re doing well, I don’t want to push my luck.”

“I like where they are,” he offers, his eyes roaming the little courtyard. He points to an open area, “What will you put in that spot?”

“Nothing, that’s where I like to sit. The sun always touches that spot, but the trees give me just enough shade.”

The idea comes to him immediately. “We should eat out here sometime.”

“What, at night?”

“Or during the day,” he shrugs. He thinks the forwardness is stemming from a sudden spike in urgency, but he can’t deny he hasn’t been thinking of ways he could see her more often. The need for secrecy seems unnecessary now. No one bothered her and no one bothered him. Westeros truly seems to have forgotten about them. 

She smirks, seeing right past his relaxed tone. “Oh?”

He doesn’t cower under her teasing. “If you’d like, of course. But I think it would be nice.”

Dany grows a little serious, uncertainty clouding her eyes as she considers his words. It’s gone in seconds. “I think it would be, too.”

As Jon walks home, the panic leaves him. He’s glad, he doesn’t want his life to be in the grip of wayward emotions. He’s confident in his change, proud of the strength he’s found in facing the consequences of his actions without immediately falling back into guilt and regret. He doesn’t try to find justification in the choices he made, instead he directs his thoughts to what he would have done differently, who he would trust and who he would listen to. It makes him feel stronger, wiser. It also encouraged him to lean into his heart more, to follow what he truly wanted to follow instead of questioning it.

Very tentatively, his heart permits him to entertain the secret want that perhaps the dream wasn’t only a vision of Dany’s life, that maybe it could be his as well.

\---------------

Things were changing between them, but that was inevitable, and not without obstacles. They snap at each other sometimes now, the wounds of the past flaring in disruptive emotion when a teasing jest or an innocent question unknowingly poked at it. She doesn’t mean to do it, yet there are times when she feels uneasy with the way her looks at her and she works quickly to move him back to a safe distance, herself too. When his voice grows hard, she can tell that he’s still very much full of resentment, for everyone and everything that led them to where they are. It isn’t a pressing emotion, so she doesn’t pry. When he gets quiet and withdrawn, she knows if she does pry, he’ll say things she isn’t sure she wants to hear.

Privately, she’s relieved to know that they’re at a point where a small row won’t ruin what they’ve built, that they no longer skirt around each other with careful, unimaginative, boring words about their ordinary lives.

Some point in between the sixth and eighth time, Dany begrudgingly admits to herself that she still loved him just as she did before. It wasn’t difficult fact to face, she’d done everything she could to stop and all it did was hold it back for a while. She stored it away, she told herself to hate him, then to forget, then to remember and cherish, but none of it ever proved to be successful. She had no plans of telling him, she isn’t sure if she’ll ever want to. Dany loves them as they are. She enjoys the ease of their friendship, the safety of it when neither of them is taking risks. She isn’t sure if anything more would be good for them…or deserved.

She’s pulled in all sorts of directions over it, telling herself that she’s been given too much of a second chance already, that the cost of leaving all the terrible things behind is that the good should be left behind as well. It would be the virtuous thing to do, to put her atonement before her own desires. She’s trying, despite how terrible she is at it.

A couple of weeks passed after he’d made the tentative proposal before he mentioned it again, this time in the form of a question rather than suggestion. She doesn’t know what prompted his surprising forwardness and it pleased her more than she cared to say. He hid his nerves well, but still saw them and couldn’t bear to consider striking them with rejection.

He was anxious the first afternoon he came by, more careful and guarded. Dany thinks it was the daylight. Meeting at night offered them a veil of secrecy, a sense of comfort and security even from each other, but the daylight is different. She understood. Even as it was just the two of them walking up the pathway, she felt like their private, peculiar friendship was exposed.

His shyness melted away after a few minutes, and some strange determination took over him. It confused her as much as it attracted her. They cooked, side by side, and then her urged her to lay a blanket out on the grass so the bugs don’t find their way into their food.

She did so while he finished up, warnings going off in her head about what they were doing. It was a very romantic setting, picturesque and fairytale-like. The sun had shined bright above them, and the bees in her flowers buzzed peacefully all around her. She wondered if it was his intent all along but waved away any irritation because she knew very well when she agreed that it was exactly what it would look like.

She knew all the times after as well.

It was becoming more frequent. Twice, sometime three times a week, he would pay her a visit at some point in the day. Occasionally he would bring Ghost with him, and other times it would be just the two of them. She’d long stopped adhering to the voices of reason and warning in her heart, finding fault in every argument they offered, yet she didn’t forget them entirely because in her head they remained relevant.

Dany credits her resistance to a protective combination of fear and pride. Her scars are only just healed, still pink from the stabs of betrayal. She wouldn’t let him do it again. She wouldn’t ask him to choose her, and she refuses to pine after him with a pained heart when he didn’t. However, it all feels like a mirage, too. He would never knowingly hurt her again, she could see his promise of that in his actions, his looks, his words. Dany tells herself that it couldn’t matter, that it was _necessary_ to prove that she doesn’t need him. She worries she’s being too paranoid, but then she remembers it wasn’t her love that was doubted before, and it wasn’t his that was rejected.

More than anything, she’s careful. Acknowledging the truths she couldn’t change meant she could control them and keep her head clear. It keeps her from completely leaning into the place of vulnerability she had given into before. It’s enough to keep her from wanting anything more from him, remembering how it felt to fall alone with no one there to catch her. She doesn’t expect anything from him, she doesn’t wait.

“Where would you like this?”

She looks up to see Jon holding a stack of old wood planks and the doorway of her schoolroom.

That had become part of it too, him helping her with whatever tasks she needed to have completed. He was just as skilled as she was, which isn’t saying much, but she appreciated the extra hand and the extra time with him. They worked well together, that she could never deny.

When he comes in the afternoons, the first thing he’ll ask is if she needs help with anything, whether it be making a trip to the markets with her list in hand, cooking, or helping her unpot a tree.

“Just with those over there,” she replies, motioning towards a small collection of broken pots she needed to have carted away. He nods, turning in that direction while she goes back to reading her book. He’d ask her about it later.

Jon is endlessly curious about her hobbies. At first, she didn’t like all the questions. It felt invasive and uncomfortable until she eventually gave in and then it was the part of their visits that she enjoyed most. She’d forgotten what it was like to have someone _care_ about how she spent her time.

Dany’s just as curious about him, and she loves hearing about what he does when he isn’t here. She’s immensely proud of Jon for carrying on, for picking himself up and moving forward from the rubble they were both left in. Most of all, she adores how alive he’s becomes, waving his hands about when he’s telling an odd story, or the way he gets endearingly frustrated about the antics he comes across in his patrol. In a way, she misses the stoicism, the mysterious way he carried himself, but this was just as captivating.

There are things they still don’t say, secrets they keep to themselves. He doesn’t know that her nightmares have come back, more vivid than ever. The wildfire, the screams, the crumbling city below her. It’s a side effect of him, she thinks, of all the memories of Westeros attached to him. He doesn’t know that a very small of her starts to think on what could have been, that wished things _were_ different. Every so often she needs to remind herself that this life is just as good.

She wonders what he keeps from her.

“Alright, the old chairs are cleared and the leg on that table is fixed, should be sturdy now,” he says, walking over to her. He’s wearing a worn, grey tunic and black trousers. His hair is pulled into a bun, which had become slightly undone in his labor, resulting in stray curls falling over his face. She can see the sweat on his brow, his neck. His skin is properly kissed by the sun and the look serves him well. “Anything else?”

“Thank you, Jon,” she says with gratitude. New chairs and tables were an expense she couldn’t justify spending the money on. “That’s it for today, I think. We should start on lunch, before it gets too late.”

He nods. “I can, you can keep reading if you’d like,” he replies, gesturing to the book in her lap. He’s very sweet to her, annoyingly so.

“No, you’ve done more than enough for me already,” she doesn’t tell him that she enjoys spending that time with him or likes the closeness they’re subjected to in the confines of her small kitchen. “We’ll do it together.”

He nods, a familiar smile gracing his lips. She thinks it’s one of her favorite smiles, it’s the only one he doesn’t try to stifle behind composure. He wipes his hands at a rag folded into his belt before holding it out to her to help her up. She takes it, and as always, the touch of his coarse palm leaves her with a subtle, pleasant warmth.

He brought the food this time, arriving with a variety of fruits and vegetables with the fish he bought. When they get to her kitchen, he gets straight to work, washing his hands thoroughly in the basin of water before going to straight to the counter to unwrap the fish. She finds herself trying to catch up, following the lead he seems confident in taking.

“Will you cut those oranges in half for me, please?” he asks quietly, gesturing towards the cotton bag sitting on her table.

Dany slices the oranges for him before cutting the mangos, apples, and pineapple. She takes a seat at the table while Jon carries on, picking at the bowl of fruit while she waits for him. When he’s nearly done, she goes up to peak at the dish he’s so focused on.

“What’s this?” she asks, amused.

“Trying something new,” he answers, his concentration unwavering. “The women at the stand said oranges go well with salmon. And honey…said it brings out the sweetness.”

“Salmon? That’s rather expensive, Jon.”

He shrugs. “They gave me a good price, and I was getting sick of cod.”

“Did they?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. She knew which stand he was talking about. One woman was friendly enough, but the other was always rather short with Dany, but she’d witnessed both being shameless flirts. “They must fancy you quite a bit, they’re inflexible bargainers with me.”

Jon laughs quietly, pausing to cast her a brief glance. He’s quiet for a moment before responding, his eyes on the glaze he’s brushing over the fillets. “I’m not here for them.”

Dany feels the heat in her cheek at she looks down at her hands, pretending to be unaffected. “Good,” she says simply, before walking back to the table. She rolls her eyes, the slip achieved nothing but embarrassment. “Inside or out?” she asks, hoping to move on quickly. 

“Inside,” he answers, back still turned. She lets out a quiet sigh of relief. “I think I may have used too much honey this glaze is more like a syrup.”

The salmon is delicious, she tells him, and he promises to make it again in the near future. She reminds him of their plans next week to roast a chicken outside over a fire. They were going to build a small fire pit, she was adamant of helping with this project, feeling guilty that he’s was putting so much effort in perfecting a home that he didn’t call his.

“She’s very happy,” she replies when Jon asks her about Doraya. He’d helped her find temporary placement at a baker’s shop. The older man worked with his wife and Dany has judged them both to be kind, hardworking people. “She says she likes them, and they tell me she doesn’t complain about any work they give her. I hope they’ll want to keep her with them.”

Moriah had pointed out that Doraya was already nine, old enough to look after herself. Dany thinks this position bought them a few more months but they didn’t have much more than that.

“And if they don’t?” Jon asks. His concern for the little girl he’d never met was lovely.

“Then she’ll stay here,” Dany replies easily. She’s determined to see that Doraya is given a fair chance at life. She’s a bright girl with a promising future that shouldn’t be squashed because of the circumstances she was born in to. “I have an extra room that I don’t use. It’s small, but adequate for a child. I’ve told her as much, I don’t want her to worry.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “How are the boys adjusting?”

Gylan and Haryn were her new students, twin boys of six years who delighted in disrupting her lessons. She found them adorable but exhausting. “Well, I think. When the other children stopped laughing at their antics, they quieted down. Their father must be aware of their wildness, because he pays more than enough.”

He looks slightly put-out. “I thought it was their mother that brought them here?”

“She used to, not so much anymore,” Dany answers, resisting her smile. “He’s very friendly, I think he’s relieved I haven’t turned them away like the private tutors he’s hired,” she glances up from her plate, her amusement ebbs away as she takes in his serious, dour expression. She takes pity on him. “He’s says I’ve given a much-deserved break to his wife, it’s sweet the way he cares for her.”

He relaxes just a fraction at her response, averting his eyes from her knowing glance.

_Why does it matter to you?_

They quickly move on, as they always do, turning a blind eye to the words on the tip of their tongues. That conversation feels inevitable, but she pretends otherwise.

“Come sit outside with me,” she says when they’re done. Jon had that look on his face, the dissatisfaction when he decides he has no reason to stay any longer. He never asks to stay, but perhaps he still needs the little reassurance. “It’s a nice day.”

He’s pleased by her offer, and his mood lifts as they wash up quickly before going back outside. She can’t describe how grateful she is for it really, the perpetual tranquility in his expressions when he’s here. Even in the awkward moments, she hadn’t seen the absolute defeat that had consumed him when he first arrived in some time.

She lays down on the blanket, closing her eyes, tired and sated from lunch. She could fall asleep, but she feels his eyes on her.

When she opens them, he’s sitting up against a tree beside her, watching her intently.

“What?” She asks, a bit concerned at his seriousness.

“I heard something today,” he replies carefully. “At the docks.”

Dany gets slightly impatient as she waits for him to elaborate. “What is it, Jon?” she asks, sitting up.

“It’s about Westeros,” he says with a grimace. She exhales, looking away from him. “The Reach is—”

“Stop,” she demands. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

“I thought you’d be interested—”

“Why?” she snaps. She’d apologize later for her shortness. “What happens in Westeros doesn’t concern me.”

“Sorry,” he replies, an edge of defensiveness in his voice. “I just thought you’d be curious.”

She sighs, calming herself down. “It’s alright.”

“You don’t ever find yourself wondering?”

“There’s no point. I can’t fix anything. I can’t help.” She’s embarrassed, she thought she was passed the bitterness.

Jon reaching for her hand, gently uncurling the fingers from the tight grip she’d had them in. He doesn’t let go.

He gives her a gentle squeeze. _An apology._ She’d forgiven him months ago. 

He doesn’t pull away like she expects. Dany looks back at him to see his eyes focused on their intertwined fingers. 

After a few moments, he leans back against the tree, closing his eyes, his hold solid and comfortable.

She’s impressed with his unfaltering calmness, and a little unsettled by it. She wonders how he would react if she moved closer to him, if she rested her head against his shoulder.

Silly, reckless thoughts like that had taken up residence in her mind in recent days. She sometimes thinks she’s being selfish, that she’s being unfair to him. She doesn’t know if he wrestles with his feelings as she does. She remembers what she told him in the beginning, the chilled answers she gave him in order to smother his hopeful looks. And maybe Jon Snow, as good as he is, is still holding onto them, living by them.

Dany looks at him, his face a mask of peace, the lines worry smoothed over into what she can only describe as happiness. She remembers the other things she told him as well, to forgive himself, to find joy where he could. He’s happy here, just like this, and so is she. There’s no need to complicate things further.

She pulls her hand away, settling back onto the blanket, trying her best to ignore the way his face falls in disappointment.

\---------------

It’s been over a week since Jon’s moment of embarrassing misjudgment and despite his bruised pride, he’d been back four times since. Dany never brings it up, but for the first time he wishes that she would, that she would tell him why. She hesitated, that he knew for sure, but something made her decide to reject it. He wants to ask what it was, what he could say or do to change her mind. But she pulled away, that had to mean more than whatever he wanted to believe. 

The closeness that had been growing between them felt permanently stuck were it was. He’s been undeservedly frustrated, and she’s picked up on it. He doesn’t like the concerned look on her face, the shadow of pity. The silence was piling up with problems, he worries that if they kept ignoring it, he would lose sight of her.

Two days after, he’d come back, like they agreed. When she acted as if nothing was amiss, relief was immediate, confusion followed, and as he walked away that night, disappointment settled. Indication one way or another would be better than nothing. He hated the blindness of the middle.

She isn’t entirely to blame. He could simply ask her, but he questions why he should at all. She pulled away; it was her way of answering him. It shook his confidence entirely, made him wonder why he thought he _could_ earn her love again, but he still refused to forget his hope. He couldn’t.

Jon wants to move forward like all the other times, like she has, but a new stubbornness won’t let him, holds him in this spot where he’s anxious and impatient for something to be different.

It’s late, after supper, and because they’re pretending that there wasn’t a shift between them, she invited him to stay a little longer. Perhaps too hastily, he decided that wine would be fine thing to indulge in. He wanted to calm his nerves.

It’s quiet, Jon’s trying to find the peacefulness in it. It’s difficult, he feels warm, alert, anxious. He looks up from his cup, Dany is staring down at hers, swirling it slowly, distracting herself. He hates all of this; they were terrible at maintaining the charade. He wants to push against the barrier between them.

“What are we doing, Dany?” he asks quietly. 

They abandoned the kitchen an hour ago and moved to her sitting room. In that hour, she’d grown unusually pensive and subdued. There was no table to decide their distance from one another, the space between them was loud and buzzing.

She stills, she keeps her eyes down. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” _Look at me._

“We’re friends,” she says, shifting in her seat. “You’re my best friend.”

He’s relieved by her answer, he’s discouraged by it.

She finally looks up and he’s nearly disarmed by the pleading look in her eyes. _She doesn’t want to talk about this._

“Is this wise?” he asks anyway. It’s a silly question, of course it isn’t wise, and he knows that. But he’s already submitted to it.

She smiles at him, defeated and tired. “I don’t think that matter much anymore, Jon. I don’t want to stop,” she admits. “Do you?”

“You know I don’t,” he answers softly. She had to know; his regrets weren’t a secret. “I only worry that it won’t always be like this. That it’s going to hurt again.” _It’s already changing._

“I suppose that depends on us,” she starts diplomatically. “If you think it’s going to hurt…you have to do you what you believe is best for yourself.”

He stares at her, searching for any indication that it was difficult to say. Her mask is perfectly in place, softness and pity, trying _not_ to hurt him.

“It hurts now, sometimes,” he admits, watching her closely, hoping to draw out an honest reaction. “You deserve a better… _friend_ than me.”

Maybe that’s why she pulled away. She’d already given more of a second chance that he earned, and she realized he wanted too much. 

But there is a flare of anger in her eyes. “I know you mean well, but what I deserve isn’t for you to decide.”

“Dany—”

“It’s not. If I thought for a moment that continuing to see you would only hurt me again, I would have told you that. I would have stopped this ages ago,” she says firmly. “I _want_ your company, Jon, but only as long as you’re willing to give it. If you’re hurting, or you don’t feel the same…then maybe we _should_ stop. For a while, at least.”

He waits for the spiral, the loss of it to hit him with a crippling sharpness, but it doesn’t. He supposes he’s grown used to the possibility. All these months have proven to him than life is bearable enough when he doesn’t put every thought into things he couldn’t change. He knows he has her to thank for that.

She’s looking at him expectantly, like another test. He doesn’t know what she wants him to say, but that’s alright. Jon shakes his head, giving her a wistful smile. “What if it’s for the best?”

The question tastes strange on his tongue, weak. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was an honest answer, one he could settle for if she wanted him to.

Unsurprisingly, Dany doesn’t believe him either. She studies him with curious eyes, untroubled by his question. Jon starts to feel self-conscious and doubtful. He stares down at the cushioned seat, waiting and wondering.

He hears a deep sigh, the soft clunk of her wine glass on the table at her side.

“Look at me,” she says leaning a little closer to him. When he does, she close, inches away. He can almost taste the wine on her lips. “If you think that’s the only path you have, then take it.”

There’s no judgment in her eyes, only acceptance, as if she always believed he would retreat. It should comfort him, but he doesn’t like that she expects nothing from him. She has no faith in him still.

It clears his head, banishes his nerves. He didn’t want her to think that way, as if she could never feel safe or loved enough to want anything from him.

“It’s not the one I want,” he admits in a low voice.

There’s a spark of something in her eyes, a brightness that she hides quickly. His heart flutters with hope.

She backs up, composed and patient. “Do you know what you want?”

She’d asked him in the beginning, and he was clueless, utterly lost. The future was only an idea, an empty concept and a thing he resented. It’s still an idea, not anything solid he could look forward too, but his want is clear as day. He’s sick of avoiding it, acting as if it isn’t there or he didn’t have the capability of reaching for it.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation.

Dany’s composure falls just a little. She averts her eyes, taking a deep breath, contemplating his reply. She never expected his answer at all. She expected him to keep hiding it, to do nothing.

“I want to believe you,” she says after a few moments of silence. There’s a strain in her voice. “I do…”

“But?” He moves closer, forgetting his own vulnerability and determined to understand, to prove her doubts wrong.

“What if we try and it doesn’t work.”

She’s trying to keep him at a distance. He hears what she doesn’t say, _what if you let me down again._

“It will,” he promises.

“How do you that?” she asks.

 _Because I love you._ When he said those words, he didn’t want her to question them. “Because I know what I lost,” he says instead. “I’ll do everything I can to be what you deserve.”

Dany smiles at his reply, but she’s quiet. She doesn’t believe him. He’s patient, holding off any panic as she sorts through her thoughts.

She stands, stepping away and putting distance between them. He expects her to leave the room, but she stops just in front of the doorway, near the table against the wall, and turns to look at him.

She’s serious, her eyes gentle and so full of affection, yet burning into him with warning. He knows it’s difficult for her.

Jon rises, walking over to her slowly, giving her time to change her mind. 

He stops just in front of her, his heart beating loudly in his ears. When she doesn’t move away, he moves closer still, slowly encircling her waist, pulling her towards him.

She breathes in, deep and slow, yielding.

Jon leans towards her, his nose brushing softly against hers. He waits, he would wait as long as she needs him to. But he doesn’t have to, he feels her hand at his side, the press of her fingers into his shirt, the other tangling into the curls at the base of his neck. She nods, just slightly, before closing the gap between them, pressing her lips to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of guessed a lot about the whole Rhaegar and Lyanna thing, it didn't make sense to mention his obsession with the prophecy when it wasn't really mentioned in the show idk. Anyway, I decided to end it here cause the next part is gonna have a happier vibe to it lol, but maybe with some angst (i really don't know) cause that seems to be my default. It's not always intentional, I just can't help it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone! ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Idk if this version of event is very plausible but I tried lol. Hoped you enjoyed the first half!


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